Bare King
by EtherDoc
Summary: Season 4 thriller that moves the story forward in a believable way. In chess a bare king can never give check, and so can never hope to win. The best ending he can hope for is a stalemate. Eventual Johnlock. **For mature audiences only**
1. Chapter 1 - After Goodbye

Ch. 1 After Goodbye

The plane landed with a gentle easy thud, a testament to the pilot's competence and experience. Sherlock was already out of his seat and walking down the aisle towards the closed door, ignoring the tightly pressed lips of the stewardess. Then it was down the short airstair and back to John. He stood unsmiling with his hand in Mary's. She was triumphant in her red jacket. It covered and hid the swell of her belly. That bump was a quiet and poignant statement of possession. John belonged to her, it said. Her eyes said the same even as they looked at him fondly.

"Well," Sherlock said. Silence followed, stretched, becoming awkward. John took a deep breath and let it out all at once.

"He's back, you're back. What now?" John asked. _Loose jaw, eyes bright, hands relaxed, back: soldier straight._ The most dangerous criminal they had ever known had returned from his grave and John was excited about it. Sherlock smirked.

"I don't know. I don't like not knowing. I need to get back to London," Sherlock said, glancing at Mycroft. A black car pulled up behind them. Sherlock paused, his gaze on John's still face.

"I could use your help, John."

"Of course!" Mary smiled. His eyes still held onto John's as he waited for his answer. John was doing his best to shield his feelings with a mask of indifference. Emotions could be tricky to read. Not really his area. His eyes traced over the lines of John's face. There could be anger there but all at once he was unsure. John finally gave him a tight smile followed by a smart military turn, leading Mary back to the other waiting car.

The ride to London was quiet. Mycroft alternated between crossing his legs, looking out the window, and giving Sherlock sly glances.

"What?" Sherlock finally snapped.

Mycroft shrugged delicately, looking at the ceiling. His fingers drummed on the seat beside him.

"Magnussen," Sherlock said.

"Oh, most certainly working for Moriarty."

"And if we stop him?"

"Then you'll have the support of a thankful nation. That should be enough to justify a pardon. Others have been forgiven for far worse."

There was a long pause until Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"What now?"

Mycroft inhaled through his nose and pursed his lips.

"I thought it was obvious."

"Either tell me or shut up. I'm trying to think," Sherlock replied.

"Did you notice Mary's shoes?" Mycroft asked.

"Black leather, most likely an old pair of nursing shoes, laces double knotted. She's pregnant, Mycroft. They're comfortable."

"I would expect you of all people would see past that."

Sherlock put his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. The tarmac was there, far away against a backdrop of blue sky. Then suddenly he was standing by the plane, his surroundings as clear as a photograph. Everyone was frozen in their places. John's hand was in his. _To the best of times, John_, his own voice echoed in his head. He walked around himself in a slow circle, trying to examine his expression, but his face looked out of focus. The closer he peered, the worse it got.

Sherlock waved one hand and the scene began to move backwards in time. He played it forward again, watching John carefully as he walked over to speak with Sherlock one last time. John had pulled tightly into himself, holding every emotion carefully in check, every inch the solider.

John's eyes gave him away. In them Sherlock saw an echo of the loss he'd felt at that moment. The realization made his heart clench in his chest. John had known that Sherlock was going on a suicide mission, that he would probably never see him again. It was evident in the way he turned to look away as he asked how long Sherlock would be gone. John didn't want to say goodbye for the last time - not again. He couldn't.

… _there's something I should say…_

Sherlock tore himself away and walked towards Mary where she watched them both with her hands in her pockets. The moment was frozen once again so he could study her. His eyes took in her hair; the breeze had lifted it up and would set it down again if the seconds moved forwards. She'd had it cut recently. Her makeup was light, her usual colors and technique. A scarf draped around her neck over the red jacket she favored. Over the left pocket, like it was covering her heart, a brooch was pinned.

Then there were the shoes. Black - recently polished to hide the scratch marks at the heels from where she had toed them off again and again without undoing the laces. Her other shoes she never bothered to buff so why these? Mary was as careful about this detail as she had been about taking on her new identity. She took secrecy to the point of paranoia. Those shoes looked familiar.

Then the scene shifted, the world tilting crazily to one side as he and Mary moved to Magnussen's office. Mary dressed all in black, from the beanie covering her hair to the black shoes on her feet - the same shoes she wore on the tarmac. His mind sifted through the times he and Mary were together, juggling the information, searching for connections and looping mental threads of string between them.

The first time he'd met Mary there had been one deduction he should have taken more seriously.

_Liar._

He'd missed the importance and scope of that particular observation. He ran through the list of deductions he'd made that night, careful to dismiss only the trivial data until only a single anomaly remained.

_Guardian._

It could mean she worked for the Guardian. Sherlock dismissed the conclusion as unlikely. And really after that it could only mean it was tied to her past, her ability with a gun and her other more questionable skills. Not guardian then, but bodyguard. Add to that the fact that Magnussen had somehow found out about Mary's past and that he most likely was under the direction of Moriarty. There was only one conclusion. Mary had been Moriarty's personal bodyguard.

"Hmn, bit not good," Sherlock said, opening his eyes.

"Precisely," Mycroft said.

He didn't ask how Mycroft had arrived at that same conclusion with his limited knowledge of Mary. Instead he folded his arms and sulked in one corner until the car rolled to a stop directly outside of 221b. Mycroft held his umbrella over Sherlock's chest when he went to open the door, waiting until he had Sherlock's attention to lower it again.

"There might be more to this than either one of us can say. Best to wait and see what unfolds. I'll be in touch later this evening. Try and be… discreet until then."

Sherlock grabbed his small bag and violin case from the trunk of the car. He reached out with one hand to open the door to the flat, surprised at finding a small bit of comfort in the familiar door with its gold lettering and knocker and chipping paint. He pushed open the door with his fingertips.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he entered. His bag was already forgotten on the threshold. The violin case he held close to his chest like a child.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so glad you've changed your mind about leaving! Don't mind me dear," she said, waving him away as she dabbed her eyes with a pink handkerchief. "I've brought up tea and biscuits. John said you'd be wanting some. He seems a bit off. Best not to stir him up," she ended in a whisper.

Sherlock hurried up the seventeen stairs, his thoughts shifting from Moriarty to Mary to John. So much was uncertain, leaving endless possibilities that made his head ache with their weight. The chances of them all making it through this unscathed were minimal.

John stood at the window between the drawn curtains, gazing down into the street. His hands were behind his back and his expression was closed. Sherlock couldn't read anything beyond the obvious – Mary had insisted he get dropped here (_good girl_), John was thinking of growing his moustache again (_laughable_), he had taken this week off at the clinic… and John was angry.

"John. Good."

Sherlock set down the violin case next to his chair. When he stood again John had moved to the kitchen. There was the sound of metal on porcelain as John prepared his tea. Sherlock moved slowly to the kitchen, his heart beating more quickly in his chest. John was pointedly not looking in his direction.

"I didn't know how to tell you the truth."

The tea cup jangled down onto the saucer and they clinked together like bells. John jabbed one finger into Sherlock's chest.

"You lied to me again, Sherlock. We're supposed to be friends."

"We are."

"Then you should have told me you weren't coming back!"

John had grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket as he spoke and he hadn't let go. He stared at his own hands in surprise and then his gaze moved to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt his pulse speed up again and he took in a deep shuddering breath. He pulled himself away, stepping back into the safety of his own comfort zone.

"I couldn't tell you, John."

"Why bloody well not?"

The room was silent. For a moment neither of them was moving. Sherlock realized he wasn't even breathing.

"Fine," John said.

John grabbed his jacket from off the sofa and headed towards the door.

"When I first met you I thought I knew everything about you," Sherlock said to John's back. "Since then you've constantly surprised me. And there's been nothing you've done that has made me regret our friendship."

John had paused in the doorway.

"You still haven't answered my question, Sherlock."

John's footfalls faded like passing rain, followed by the sound of the door opening and then closing. Sherlock slumped against wall then ran his fingers quickly over his hair in frustration. The tea grew cold, Mrs. Hudson came and went. Downstairs the door opened and Sherlock cringed.

"He'll return," Mycroft announced as he came in. "Now you have work to do."

Notes: I didn't want to come right out and say "mind palace". I hope it's obvious that's where Sherlock went when he put his fingers to his temple to concentrate. I liked the idea of Mary being involved with Moriarty in some way in the past but still in love with John. Sherlock was the third wheel for most of season 3 and there's no reason that would change… yet. Chapter 2 is called "Before the Game".


	2. Chapter 2 - Before the Game

Ch. 2 – Before the Game

The days tumbled through each other in an endless cycle of new data, new theories, and inconclusive results. The wall behind the sofa had been transformed into a web of push-pinned news clippings, and papers were scattered across the furniture and floor. And the entire flat reeked of burnt coffee from when he had left the pot on a hot burner. It was a very distinct smell and hard to dismiss_. Unfortunate. _

Sherlock was lying with his head on the floor and his feet on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. His hair was a disheveled mess and his bathrobe was wrinkled and stained. A ghost of stubble graced his cheeks and chin.

"I don't know which looks worse. You or the flat," John said from the doorway.

Sherlock made a humming noise from the floor.

"Any luck then? Catching Moriarty?"

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed as collapsed into his chair.

"I'm not having this conversation with you again, Sherlock. Let's just forget about it, yeah?"

"I can't be something I'm not, John."

"I said forget about it," John snapped. It came out like an order and Sherlock's lips curled up. _Yes Captain_, he thought.

His hand reached up to the sofa, fingers searching until they reached the smooth wood of his violin. The bow found the strings and swept across them in a sweet pull. It moved back and forth while his fingers lightly danced.

"Sherlock, what if… what if Moriarty put me in that fire and not Magnussen? He likes strapping semtex to people. It seems like his type of game. Magnussen would need someone to do his dirty work, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, just continued to fill 221b with his music until John reached over to grab the neck of the instrument. John was looking down at him, holding his gaze firmly. Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable question, the one he didn't want to answer. He wanted John to be happy and whatever reply he gave to John's query would not make him happy. The world held its breath and Sherlock held his with it.

"You need to tell me, Sherlock. No more lies. Is Mary involved in this somehow?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I'm asking you, Sherlock!"

John released his hold on the violin and sat back. His arms were crossed over his chest and Sherlock knew John wouldn't leave it alone until he had an answer. He would pick at it like a scab and then they would bleed. Sherlock wondered why no one else could see how clever John could be. He didn't use deduction to come to conclusions; he used instinct. It was the same instinct that had gotten him through his service in Afghanistan and that had driven him to find and put down their serial-killer cabbie. He couldn't give John anything except the truth when he was like this.

"There is a slight chance that she is working with Moriarty, yes. But it's highly unlikely given the timing of her marriage to you. I find it much more plausible that he has some hold over her."

"Information about her past? That sort of thing?" John asked.

"More likely she was employed under Moriarty at some point. That would be hold enough. It would explain what a former assassin is doing in London and why she chose a soldier as a husband. It's time, John."

"Time for what?"

Sherlock fished around the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a thumb drive. The initials A.G.R.A. were written on the front in back ink. John's face grew dark as a summer storm at the sight of it. One fist clenched at his side.

"Is that what I think it is? You told me I could trust Mary! What you really meant is I should trust you. And I did. I gave her the little speech we prepared and I tossed that thing into the fire, thinking that would be the end of it. But it never ends. So what's on it? Have you looked? Of course you have. And now you know more about my wife than I do. Perfect."

"Don't be ridiculous. You live together, watch television together, sleep together.

You've had three years to get to know each other. I'd say you know each other quite well."

"Of course my wife knows more about me than you do!" John spat.

_Like about your relationship with Major Sholto, ex-commander._

"She certainly sees you more," Sherlock said.

"Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?"

Sherlock cringed because he did know what he sounded like. Jealous.

"I haven't," Sherlock said.

"Haven't what?"

"Looked."

Sherlock's mouth felt like it was full of cotton and there was a bitter taste on his tongue. This thing was already testing their friendship and there was so much more that John didn't know. So much he didn't know. They both stared at the thumb drive until John pinched it from Sherlock's outstretched hand and walked to the computer. Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding. When he said he hadn't looked, what he meant was-

"It's empty," John said. "Of course it's empty."

"She's clever. She knew you wouldn't want to see it. Or it may have been a test of her marriage to you."

There was nothing incriminating to Mary or threatening to his marriage on the thumb drive. That should have put John at ease. Instead there was still an underlying anxious energy about him. It had been there since the goodbye on the tarmac. _Since the wedding. Since dancing lessons together._

He could remember every detail of John's first awkward attempts to work through the footing for a waltz. There was much swearing and little progress as he tried to learn on his own and then Sherlock had stepped in. John looked up at him, confused and suddenly uncertain. Sherlock placed one hand in the small of John's back, so completely aware of each finger pressing into that curved space, then took the other hand in his. They stood like that for a few seconds, enough time for the space between their palms to become damp and hot.

Where Sherlock led John would follow. The music swelled around them as Sherlock moved with John around the small confines of the sitting room. At first they looked at one another unsmiling. Then Sherlock had taken John through a turn and John had laughed with a simple joy that went straight to Sherlock's heart. The longer they danced the more comfortable John had become until they were laughing at every little thing – a misstep, John tripping over Sherlock's feet, and the dip Sherlock took John into at the end of the song.

Then it was John's turn to lead and he was every bit the solider, stiff and methodical in the movement, leading rigidly with his hand around Sherlock's waist.

"No no no! Relax. Shoulders down, and turn and step and turn."

The music had ended and John hadn't let go. He traced little patterns on the palm of Sherlock's hand with his thumb as he held it. He looked at the floor until Sherlock had dropped his arms and turned away. He had no claim over John. Not anymore. He belonged to Mary.

So now that he thought about it, this tension had been there for a while. It had grown worse with the passage of time, as if John was losing some internal conflict with himself.

There was no way to approach John about it. Everything he thought to say was drowned by uncertainty. Their friendship seemed a tenuous thing and there was no risk worth taking if that was to be sacrificed. John had made his choice and he wouldn't push him into making any other. He'd made enough mistakes for a lifetime where John was concerned.

Sherlock leaned over the computer with John. They both stared at the same blank folder on the screen. He could feel John's warmth next to him and he leaned into it. If John noticed he didn't pull away.

"So, AGRA? Any idea what that means?" John asked.

"It's difficult to say at this juncture. Possibly Mary's initials."

"Mary – that's not even her name. Sherlock, you've known her less than a year. And yet you killed a man to protect her. Why would you do that?"

_It's always you, John Watson._

"Well, he wasn't a very nice man, John."

"No, he wasn't was he?"

"He really wasn't," Sherlock said and they both broke into giggles. The air in the room seemed less stale, brightened by John's mirth. Sherlock watched John's face and it almost hurt how much he wanted to take John into his arms in that moment. He wasn't sure if that would be something John wanted. It was certainly not something Mary would like and so he did nothing. He simply basked in the glow that was John. There wasn't a single line on John's face he didn't want to touch, to explore. It must have shown on his face because John stopped laughing and looked at the ground instead.

"Oh, look at the two of you! It's so good to hear you laughing," Mrs. Hudson said as she set down tea and biscuits in the kitchen.

"Ta," John said.

Sherlock nibbled at a biscuit as he watched John make a cuppa.

"I don't know what to do about Mary. She lied to me but we're having a baby. And I love her. God help me I do. What kind of a person works for a madman like Moriarty?"

"What if you'd known about Mary's past before your marriage to her?" Sherlock asked. The question was out before he had time to think about it and now the floor was moving beneath his feet and his legs felt unsure of the weight they carried. John licked his lips as he considered. Sherlock felt his tongue dart out of his mouth, mimicking John.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" said John.

John's sandy hair reminded Sherlock of the desert, rippling and moving in the heat of the sun. His hazel eyes were always changing. Sometimes they were a dark grey, then the bluest blue in the sunlight, or dark brown in the shadows. Logically Sherlock knew it was merely central heterochromia, an eye condition affecting less the one percent of the population. It should have been inconsequential, but this was about John and anything about John was fascinating.

"Getting a bit weird now," John finally said and Sherlock dropped his eyes. John cleared his throat and sipped at his tea.

"What happens now, Sherlock?" he asked.

"We wait for Moriarty to show his hand," Sherlock replied.

"I hate waiting," John muttered as he unfolded a newspaper. He sat reading with a cup of tea in one hand, his attention occupied. Sherlock watched him until John took his leave. Sherlock stared at the chair that had been occupied by his former flatmate. Its emptiness reminded him of how much he missed the smell of tea in the morning, the sound of John padding around just outside his door, and even the yelling for the mess in the kitchen or bathroom.

The newspaper lay discarded to one side. It would stay where it was until Mrs. Hudson whisked it away in a fit of cleaning. Until then it would be a reminder of life with John when 221b wasn't so empty.

Notes: I love fan fiction that includes the dancing lesson Sherlock gave John before the wedding so I incorporated it into my own story. I tried to bring out Sherlock's inner voice, the reason he's not acting on what he obviously feels for John. By the end of this chapter we have a lot more information on Mary and this mysterious thumb drive. I read a lot of theories about what could be on it and I like the "Empty Hearse" one the best. The next chapter is titled "John is Clever". Because he is!


	3. Chapter 3 - John is Clever

Ch. 3 – John is Clever

It was Thurday. Thursdays were always busy days at the clinic. John wouldn't come to Baker Street. He would get off late and go home to Mary. Sherlock wallowed deeper into the sofa. Even though he'd seen more of John in the last week than he had in the months following his weddings, he wanted more. More of John. More running around London with the blood pumping in their veins. The two of them against the criminal masterminds of the world.

Then the front door opened and there was the familiar sound of John huffing from the cold before tromping up the stairs.

Sherlock peered at John from over steepled hands where he lay on the sofa. If he'd known John was coming he would have showered. And dressed. And made sure his hair wasn't sticking up at odd angles.

John however looked ready to face the unlawfulness that was London.

Comfortable jumper. Warm jacket. Trainers. Food. Gun.

A case!

"You weren't answering your phone," John said as way of explanation. He carried two plastic bags with the Tesco logo to the kitchen. He put the milk in the relatively clean fridge and the tea by the kettle. "What is this by the… I don't want to know."

Sherlock smiled to himself. They were mold spores. Harmless. He'd meant to toss them out yesterday. He was glad he hadn't. He was taking a gleeful pride in their banter, until his heart fell and his brain caught up. _It's not flirting, not for John. This is just what friends do. _

"So, phone?" John asked.

"Coffee table."

John slapped the device down into Sherlock's waiting palm with an exasperated sigh.

"Lestrade called me when he couldn't get ahold of you. Think you can take a break from this Moriarty thing? I called off from the clinic." John said.

That was how they found themselves in a small flat in Middlesex, staring down at the body of a young male. He had excellent grooming, something his girlfriend (_5 years_) must appreciate (_going by the necklace around his neck. Anniversary gift_). Messy gunshot wound to the chest, close range. The blood that wasn't spattered onto the walls was soaking through the carpet, red on white, spreading out in a circular pattern.

This was where his doctor would usually provide his services. Except his doctor was otherwise occupied with the victim's wallet. Sherlock scowled even though John wasn't watching. He could really do without this constant change in their dynamic. It was exhausting.

"John," Sherlock snapped and he trotted over. Once he was crouched by Sherlock's side things fell back into their usual place. He listened absently as John went through the cause and time of death. Sherlock jumped up, eyes still on the victim.

"The proximity of the wound indicates the victim knew his perpetrator. There are signs of bruising around the left eye, indicative of physical confrontation, most likely with a male of the same age."

Sherlock riffled through the wallet. There were the usual cards and identification as well as photos of the girlfriend. A very attractive girlfriend going by societal norms and perceptions of beauty. There was also one very old photo of a (_school friend_) boy. Sherlock flipped it over but there was no message inscribed on its back. The phone proved less than useless. All text messages and records had been deleted.

"Really Lestrade you called me for this? It's not even a 5. Jilted lover's boyfriend. Talk to his girlfriend. Check his phone records!"

"That's just it Sherlock, we did. The only calls he took were from family, friends, and his girlfriend," Lestrade said, sounding a bit desperate.

"Male friends?" John asked.

"Yeah no ladies," Lestrade confirmed. "Odd bloke," he muttered.

"Interesting," Sherlock mused. He plucked the cell phone from John's fingers and started scrolling through the pictures. Somewhere had to be evidence of a tryst.

"Sherlock I think you're ignoring the evidence," John said.

"Second cell phone? I thought of that but it's unlikely given the-"

"That's not what I meant."

Sherlock paused in his dissection of the phone's contents, thumbs hovering over the touch screen. He stopped to look at John, to observe the way he nervously shuffled his feet and rubbed at the back of his neck with his hand. This wasn't like Connie Prince. John could see something and he was reluctant to share it. _Why?_

"Go on," Sherlock prompted quietly.

"He had no female friends, not even acquaintances. It's alright for a bloke to have male friends but it's weird he wouldn't have a single female one. He must have been very desperate to keep up appearances, to give the impression he was faithful to his girlfriend. Probably wanted to get married, have some kids."

Lestrade had turned to listen, arms folded over his chest.

"Men don't keep a picture of an old school chum in their wallet, not unless there's something more to it. You can see where the edges are frayed from taking it out to look at it. It's a picture of an old lover, maybe his first."

"You think he's gay?" Lestrade asked.

"No he's not gay!" Sherlock snapped. "He doesn't come from an overbearing or religious family. There's no reason to hide his sexuality given the amenable climate of London towards homosexuals. Also his partner is female which is hard to miss given the nature of the more lewd images on his phone."

"You're right. He's not gay. He's bisexual," John interrupted.

Sherlock felt his worldview shifting and then settling back on John. A thousand synapses were firing as new connections were made, data strands knitting together to form a new picture. He looked at John and it was like seeing him for the first time. He could still read his military service in his stance and his new marital status by the perfectly polished state of his ring. What he couldn't see was John's sexuality. What was more he realized John couldn't see his_. John's right._ _I'm an idiot. _

Most people assumed he was asexual because there was no way to tell that he wasn't. Moriarty had known Sherlock would fail in his deductions when he played at being gay, using stereotypes to draw him into a conclusion. He had assumed Harry was Clara's husband instead of wife. Sexuality was different than occupation or religious affiliation and it wasn't something one could deduce from a cursory examination. Not only was sexuality deeply personal, it was also fluid. And his world view, even with his sexual orientation, was heteronormative. That's why he had failed to come to the right conclusion this time and every time sexuality had played a part in a case. He had assumed it was something trivial and unimportant and here John Watson was proving him wrong. And doing it in a way that made everyone around them realize how clever he was.

Something shifted over, making room for an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time. It started in his stomach then flooded his entire system. He'd been turned on around John before, within the space they shared on the sofa or in the adrenaline fueled moments following a case. This was new. This was arousal, a sensation so strong it made his legs feel weak. He knew he couldn't have what his aching body was demanding. That didn't stop the heat from dropping completely to his groin as John continued to speak.

"His lover is a male," John concluded.

"Well done, mate," Lestrade said. "That's enough to be going on, I think."

John was already walking away with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock made sure his coat was buttoned before following. He caught up to John only because he'd paused to hail a cab.

John wasn't pleased.

John was nervous.

_He should be pleased!_

"You solved the case," Sherlock said. He felt a blush steal across his cheeks. John's eyes were tracing the contours of his face. Sherlock could tell he'd heard something else in his voice, traces of desire maybe, and an open genuineness usually reserved for desperate times and situations. John's features softened.

"You would have gotten there eventually," John finally replied.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving."

Notes: there was a kink meme prompt to have John solve a case instead of Sherlock because of the gaps in Sherlock's knowledge. John is a doctor and he's smart – just not a genius like our mad detective. I've also read fanfictions entirely centered on the fact that John is bisexual. I don't state it explicitly here. It's subtext. Loud subtext. The next chapter is titled "the Game Starts".


	4. Chapter 4 - the Game Starts

It had been two days since his last meal when Mary invited him over for dinner. He was about to decline when she handed the phone over to John. There was suspicious whispering before he spoke into it.

"I know you haven't got a case, so come tonight. For me."

He threw his trousers onto the floor and dug through his dresser drawers for his one pair of jeans. John had insisted on casual attire and they were the only thing he owned that weren't tailored pants or jim jams. The jeans had a dark wash and a slim cut. They were almost snug but since he wouldn't be eating much it shouldn't be a problem. His fingers worked the buttons on his purple shirt. John's lingering gaze seemed to indicate he favored this one. He left his heavy coat and wrapped up in a leather jacket he found in the back of the closet instead.

Mrs. Hudson handed him a bouquet of flowers on his way out the door. The woman always seemed to know where he was going and why. He pecked her cheek lightly as he left. A short cab ride later he knocked on the front door of John's flat.

"I'll get it!" he heard John shout. The door opened and John's smile quickly melted into something else. His eyes went down Sherlock's frame then back up again.

"Here, from Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, pushing the flowers into John's arms.

"Uh, thanks. You look good…well. You look well."

"Dinner's ready, boys!" Mary called from the kitchen.

"Half a mo, Mary!"

John closed the door behind him, stepping out onto the landing with Sherlock. Their breathing made clouds of white smoke in the chilly London air. The air was full of the smell of burning fires. Sherlock worried the inside of his lower lip as he waited for John to say something.

"Christ, it's cold," John muttered, rubbing his fingers together.

"We could go inside," Sherlock suggested.

"Not yet."

The air between them felt delicate. John was so warm, so alive. Sherlock moved a step into him, closing the space between them. He wanted John to touch him so badly. He reveled in their closeness, fingertips almost brushing.

Sherlock choked down the words that wanted to empty themselves from his throat. John was married now. He didn't want a relationship; he wanted a friend. Sherlock knew better than to act on his urges because if he did John would walk away, home to Mary, and never come back. The fear of it was paralyzing and so he stood unmoving, his mind shivering gently as it was flooded with endorphins.

John's gaze snapped up to Sherlock's face and Sherlock felt his teeth pulling at his bottom lip. Slowly, ever so slowly, John moved his fingers to Sherlock's hand. He took it in his own and held it tight. After a few seconds he took the other one too. They stood there, holding hands in the coldness that was London. John moved nearer and Sherlock heard himself moan low and soft in quiet desperation. John had to know how hungry Sherlock felt for his touch, for that first kiss. Sherlock dropped his head. It would end them.

John suddenly moved away as the door opened and Mary popped her head out. She gave him a quick little questioning glance from the corner of her eye.

"What kind of trouble are you getting to out here? Oh, bit nippy isn't it. Come inside already."

"Actually I can't stay, Mary," Sherlock said quickly. "There's been a murder in West End. I was just coming 'round to see if John could join me."

"Sherlock, have a bit of dinner first. Either way I'm going back inside."

John looked down at his feet, then across the street, and finally found Sherlock again. Sherlock held up his cellphone so that John could see the text from Lestrade.

"Oh, there's a case. An actual case," John said.

"Yes of course there's a case," Sherlock replied. "Why would I tell Mary there was a case if there wasn't one?"

"No reason at all."

Sherlock waited while John hurried through a plate of spaghetti, sitting on the opposite side of the large dining room table. The overpowering smell of garlic completely turned him off of the meal, although he did accept a small piece of bread to make Mary happy, nibbling at it impatiently until John finished. Mary watched them both with narrowed eyes as she picked at her pasta.

They shared a cab, each quietly sitting in their own corners within a silence that was hard to break. At one point John tentatively reach out to where Sherlock's rested on the seat before he tucked it back into his pocket again.

Sherlock read through his texts as the rode further on into the night.

This looks personal. Wait until you see what I mean. –GL

Personal how? –SH

Where are you? –GL

Arriving shortly. –SH

"Wait here," Sherlock told the cabbie, leaving John to dole out a few pounds to ensure the drivers cooperation.

The location was remote and dark. The police had set up work lights along the perimeter and were stomping their feet and crossing their arms to stay warm. John could clearly see five bodies laid out in a neat row behind a layer of yellow police tape.

"Christ," John said as he got closer.

"You can see why I called you out. I'm guessing this has something to do with Moriarty," Lestrade said.

"Very observant," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Why is Sherlock wearing a leather jacket?" Lestrade muttered to John.

"No idea."

The first body was that of a petite blond wearing a red coat. The man next to her could have been John but had a slightly heavier frame. A butcher, going by the callouses on his fingers and the telling muscularity. There was a woman closely resembling Molly with a white labcoat and long ponytail, and another that looked vaguely like Mrs. Hudson. The last body was that of a man with thinning silver hair. He didn't look much like Lestrade, but the message was clear.

"It looks like a warning," John said.

"Mmmm."

"Is he threatening you or trying to make a statement?" John asked.

"Looks like he's threatening you and me. I don't see Sherlock down there," Lestrade muttered. "Does this make any sense to you Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"So what do you think?" Lestrade asked desperately.

"I think you should stop talking," Sherlock snapped.

John knelt besides him and Sherlock felt a spark of _something_ fly between them. John must have felt it too because he closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

"The alignment of the bodies in a row indicates equal probability of each becoming a target. The only question is who Moriarty will target first. One of the bodies should be different from the rest. I just can't see how," Sherlock said.

John methodically went from one body to the next, shining his small torch down throats and into eyes held open with one thumb. He carefully studied each victim as if he had all the time in the world. That was why Sherlock trusted his conclusions. There was a breadth of experience Sherlock didn't have. John was the perfect compliment.

"John?" Sherlock let a small smile touch his lips.

_Concentrate. _

"So, victims all killed around the same time, probably one after the other. They don't appear to be related in any way except, you know, they look like the only people in the world that don't think you're an obnoxious prick. Cause of death is the same for all of them though. They were strangled. Make-up applied post mortem to the women. Yeah, that's all I've got."

"No, they can't all be the same. Something is different!"

"Hey, I need to clear these bodies out, Sherlock. We need to wrap this up," Lestrade said.

The data moved around in his head, searching for a place that made sense. Five victims meant five targets. Three of the five were previous targets. Molly dated Jim from IT and Mary used to work for Moriarty.

_Think think THINK._

"Molly should have been on Moriarty's radar and she wasn't. She was a missing fourth target. That would make her a logical choice as the next victim. She's trussed up in a costume with that lab coat and her hair. But so is Mary!" Sherlock spat.

"Yeah, except that jacket doesn't look anything like Mary's. It's not even the same shade of red," John said.

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and grinned.

"Of course! Molly's in danger. Listen to me, Lestrade. Do exactly as I say. Find her and put her in protective custody. Don't let her be alone until you hear from me. Then post surveillance around her flat and St. Barts."

"Okay okay, I got it! It'll get done," Lestrade said, trying to reassure him as he pulled out his phone and turned away.

"Why is he targeting Molly of all people?" John asked.

"He knows he missed her before. There were three people he had snipers on, each with orders to shoot if I didn't jump. One for Mrs. Hudson, one for Lestrade, and one for you."

"But he didn't include Molly," John said.

"He didn't think she was important. I'd never shown any attraction to her so he knew she wasn't a romantic interest. I manipulated her feelings towards me to get what I wanted thus I didn't consider her a friend. His presence in the lab as "Jim from IT" was to confirm that Molly wasn't someone I cared about. He was wrong. He made a mistake and he knows it."

John cleared his throat and consulted the ground beneath his feet before he answered.

"You don't look very happy about all this. Last time Moriarty put on a show you were ecstatic."

"The lives of everyone I care about are at stake. Am I supposed to be happy?"

"You were before. Said it was Christmas."

"Things have changed, John."

"I think you've changed," John said.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound as he typed out a message on his cell phone. Then he turned and walked away. John trailed close behind him and Sherlock could feel him watching. He felt his skin warming under his collar and was glad he had it turned up to hide the red blush creeping up his neck.

Notes: There's so much tension between our boys in the show and this chapter really emphasizes the chemistry between them. As much as we think of only Sherlock as the third wheel, Mary is also acting in that capacity. Sherlock evolves in his character and as a human being throughout each season of the show. I wanted John to acknowledge that. The next chapter it title "A Message".


	5. Chapter 5 - A Message

"This isn't the way to Bart's," John said as they drove through the city.

Sherlock held up his phone and John read the message he'd sent earlier.

Riding crop –SH

John was silent a moment, mouth slightly agape.

"What does that mean? Why would you… is there something I should know about you and Molly?" John asked, his voice hard.

"Don't be boring, John. It's a code phrase we used when I was in hiding in the event there was trouble and she needed to get to a safe place," said Sherlock.

"So where are we going then?"

"The Diogenes club," Sherlock replied.

Sherlock strode past the maître d without pausing. John gave the man a nod and was ignored. Mycroft was waiting for them in the back room. The room smelled suspiciously of cigarettes and Sherlock raised one eyebrow at his brother. Mycroft stared back stoically.

"Scotch?" he offered.

"I'll take one," said John. Mycroft was already pouring him a glass and Sherlock frowned. He hated when Mycroft knew something he didn't. Like why John would drink a Scotch on tonight of all nights.

John sat down on one of the plush chairs, sipping it slowly. Sherlock walked over and smoothly took the glass from his fingers, sniffing at the contents. There was nothing suspicious in the aroma. Sherlock took a small sip, letting the sweet flavors linger on his tongue before swallowing. Just ordinary scotch then. _Curious_.

"Sherlock, what are you…" John trailed off as Sherlock licked the lingering scotch from his lips. Mycroft cleared his throat behind them.

"I've made the arrangements you requested. I gather from your presence here you need something else?" Mycroft said.

"You know what I need Mycroft."

Mycroft made a small humming sound and pushed a bell on the table. Sherlock turned to John, setting the glass down on the table with a thump. John reached out to take it and Sherlock's hand twitched, jerking back and spilling the liquor onto the wood.

_Focus!_

"This is the game within a game. Moriarty is looking to distract us. He's after something. He's been present in London for some time and he's decided to reveal himself now. Everything was unfolding to his designs and then something changed and forced his hand."

"What changed?" John asked.

"Magnussen," Mycroft replied. He was leaning against the bar, twirling a scotch in the glass between his fingers. The maître d entered the room with a large envelope, which he deposited in Mycroft's hand. Sherlock resisted the urge to stride over and snag the envelope from Mycroft. He'd rather take it and leave instead of engaging in all this small talk. Mycroft was keeping him on a short leash with the threat of extradition. Sherlock couldn't say whether the threat was genuine. He didn't care to find out.

"Whatever Moriarty's strategy was, it ended when I shot Magnussen. Even though he didn't foresee the shooting you can be sure he'll use it to his advantage. My description of him is really quite accurate. He isn't man. He's a spider," said Sherlock as he paced slowly around the room. One hand brushed along the back of the sofa as he walked, feeling the soft expensive material beneath their touch. John's eyes followed him.

Mycroft had finished his scotch and now took the chair opposite of John as he spoke.

"Magnussen's reach extended further that the British government was comfortable with. His authority went beyond Lady Small to countless others with influence in government and national policies. He excelled at cleaning up his tracks. Moriarty's relationship with both Irene and Magnussen suggest that he seeks power over government affairs. Whatever he is planning that will be his motivation. It's entirely possible that Moriarty himself is a puppet," Mycroft said.

"Someone behind Moriarty? Now that's scary," John said.

Sherlock sat back on the sofa, arms spread wide over its back.

"He put himself into physical danger several times by meeting with me and put himself at a great deal of risk by creating an alias as Richard Brook. That could mean there's someone much more dangerous pulling the strings. The situation requires that we draw Moriarty out of hiding. I can do that by keeping the next victim safe and out of harm's reach before he even has the chance to act. It will infuriate him and he'll turn his efforts towards winning the game instead of the crown."

"Who's his next victim?" John asked.

"Mary."

"Are you sure? Oh my god – tonight?"

John's fear was palpable. It took up space and air like a living thing. And yet under it was a hard steel that was John Watson. He accepted his fear, let it pass through and around him, until it was under his control. John would claim he was just battle hardened. Sherlock knew better. Past or present, there was no time where John was less intense or more strong. John would protect the things he loved with his very life and without trepidation.

"No, we have some time. Moriarty is expecting that I will play by his rules because that's what I've done in the past. When he finds I've spirited Molly away before he had any opportunity to make an attempt on her life then he'll move on to his next target. The logical choice is Mary."

"How do you know? It can't be all deduction," John said.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a glance.

_You should tell him_, Mycroft indicated with a slight tilt of his head.

_Mind your own business_, Sherlock glared back. There was no need to reveal his attraction to John or Moriarty's attraction to him. It would only cloud his reasoning and push John away.

"Because it's what I would do," Sherlock finally answered.

"I have arranged for a car. Everything else you need is in there," Mycroft said, handing Sherlock a large envelope.

"I need to get home. I have to warn her," John said, standing up.

"It's all been taken care of," Mycroft assured him. "She has several armed men who are keen on keeping her alive. She's quite safe I assure you."

"John, I'll see you to Mary right after I ensure Moriarty received my message."

Sherlock and John pulled up to St. Bart's in one of Mycroft's sleek black cars. Sherlock jumped out and surveyed the newest addition to the old respected building. Four large banners were rolled like parchment at the roof's edge. He waved John into the building and John followed him slowly to the lift. Each floor they passed brought them closer to the roof where he had jumped for the people he loved. John was very quiet as he stared straight ahead. Sherlock looked down at John's clenched hands.

"Sorry," Sherlock said softly. "I didn't think."

"S'alright," John said back just as softly. "Got to face it sometime. You being _not_ dead makes it a little easier."

One flight of stairs led to a door left ajar and then the roof of St. Bart's. John paused to look around until Sherlock called him over.

"Help me with these, John."

They loosened the ties on the banner and they fell down one at a time until finally together they revealed a single word.

S A F E

"What does it mean then?" John asked.

"It's a declaration. Molly is under my protection now. He should move on to the next target once he realizes he can't have her."

"And you couldn't have whoever hung them up also untie them?"

"Not without sending the message too early. I had to wait until Mary was safe and I had the surveillance records from Mycroft. He might be watching. It needs to be clear that this is my move."

The banners moved like water in the cold wind. John leaned over the edge of the roof to look at them again. The street lights were dim and yellow, casting everything in a sick pale light. Sherlock zipped his leather coat up against the chill and put his hands deep into the pockets.

"I have work to do. You might not see me for a few days. I'll make sure I'm back before Mary is in any real danger."

Back at Baker Street Sherlock dumped the contents of the envelope from Mycroft onto the coffee table, sorting through the materials. There were large color photos dated from a few days ago showing Moriarty walking down a busy street. Judging by the time and amount of foot traffic he was in a business area near central London. The accompanying documents confirmed it. In one photo Moriarty was turned towards the camera and smiling widely. He knew he was under surveillance. The last photo showed Moriarty placing a light blue cell phone on top of a small table at an outdoor café.

There were more newspaper clippings, a report on criminal activity within the London area, and a brief letter which Sherlock read twice. At the bottom of the envelope was one last item: a small blue phone. Sherlock flipped it open. There was a single text.

Got your message. You could have just called. -M

Sherlock put the phone in his pocket and then swept everything else back into the envelope. Moriarty was biding his time. There would come a day in the very near future where the little blue phone would ring. Until then John was safe and that was all that mattered.

He didn't like letting Moriarty roam the streets of London. This was his city, his home. If Mycroft was correct and there was someone else behind Moriarty then it was up to them both to bring that player down no matter what the cost.

Notes: This chapter was focused on moving the plot forward. Sherlock leaves a message for Moriarty and Moriarty gets it. You might wonder why Mycroft would let Moriarty roam the streets instead of capturing him. Just as Moriarty had used Sherlock as a pawn in the past (think "the woman" for example" our Holmes boys are using Moriarty as a pawn to find his master, the man (or woman) behind his criminal mind. (I promise it is NOT Irene.) The next chapter is "Playing the Game".


	6. Chapter 6 - Playing Games

Sherlock showed up at John's flat two days later. His hair was a wild mess on top of his head and his face was covered in grime. He'd considered returning to Baker Street to shower and dress but he didn't want to give Moriarty any more time to form a plan of action. Sherlock banged at the door until Mary opened it. She gave him one look over then sighed before stepping back to let him come inside.

"Take off your shoes and don't sit on the furniture," she warned.

"Mary, I don't know what John has told you-"

"I'm his wife Sherlock. He's told me everything."

_Unlikely_, Sherlock thought, remembering the feel of John's hands in his and the dark desperate look in his eyes. If Sherlock closed his eyes he could feel the comfort of the moment when his busy mind had grown suddenly quiet. It was the same feeling as when John gazed at him in amazement after a deduction, except his touch remained whereas the amazement always faded from his face. There was something so completely right about John's presence. Did Mary feel the same way?

Perhaps John really had told her everything. But what was there to tell? The almost embraces, the heat between them as they danced, and the fire that grew higher the longer they were apart? Was there more? He could never dare to hope there might be more.

John came out of the loo and offered Mary a kiss on the cheek. She beamed at him and covered his hand with her own. They would be the perfect picture of marital tranquility to anyone who knew them less than Sherlock. Even if he wanted to ignore the obvious his mind wouldn't allow it.

John had lost 5 pounds since their goodbye on the tarmac. The dark bags under his eyes meant he wasn't sleeping again. His fingernails were short to keep him from chewing on them in nervous agitation. Then there was his reaction to Mary. For all her affection, John did not return it. They stood two feet apart and didn't look at each other. They said one thing and their body language signaled the complete opposite. They were not happy together. Things were strained and all it would take was one little push for everything to collapse.

Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the brooch Mary had pinned to herself. Sherlock had seen this piece of jewelry before. The brooch was expensive, an intricate floral design set on a pattern of leaves. It wasn't something John would have bought her and it wasn't something she'd bought herself. Normally such an item would be purchased by a love interest or family member. Mary had no family. Ergo love interest.

The baby could still be John's but John was the kind of person that would be careful to take precautions. Given his reaction on the night of his wedding he and Mary hadn't been trying to conceive. Perhaps John even suspected another man. It would account for his coldness towards her. At that moment he wished he didn't know, that he wasn't so certain. It was one more thing to keep from John.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"John. We need to formulate a plan. Moriarty is ready to move against Mary."

"He wouldn't though," Mary said, trying to smile. "I'm not involved in any of this."

"I think we all know better than that. Do try and keep up," Sherlock said. His reply lacked the usual sarcasm he liked to reserve for when people were being stupid. Mary wasn't stupid; she was simply trying to protect herself.

"I'll do what I need to in order to keep her safe," John said.

_I believe you would, Captain._

"Mary is a target because of your relationship with her. If you break that link then she will no longer be of interest to Moriarty."

"I don't like this. I don't like it at all," Mary interrupted, hand dropping to cover her belly.

"We need to keep you and the baby safe. Please Mary. Trust me."

"You've done so much for me and John. Of course I trust you. I do," she replied, pulling him down into a hug. "Just tell me why he would care if John and I were separated."

"Because it's always been John. The sniper, his kidnapping, the fire, Magnussen. John is the real target. Moriarty wants John at Baker Street and this is the way to ensure it happens. It's a game of chess and the play has to remain balanced or he will aggressively act to restore that equilibrium."

_And I want John where I can see him. If I can see him then he's safe. _Moriarty hadn't made it clear where he wanted John but Sherlock surely knew where _he_ wanted him.

"So I'm bait for Moriarty? Fantastic. Are you sure, one hundred percent sure, that Mary will be alright? I will never forgive you or myself if something happens to her," said John.

"Better you than Mary. I meant what I said. I will always be there for you both. Mycroft has assured me he will continue active surveillance and she will be under guard at all times."

Mary would be protected because Mycroft had the power of the crown behind him and every resource at his disposal. No one could break through that kind of wall, not without inside help.

"Look Sherlock, I need to know how long you expect me to be away from my pregnant wife. There has to be another way," John said softly.

Mary grabbed John's hand and held it tight.

"Go John. It's alright. If anyone can see this through, it's Sherlock."

John seemed to pull himself together, drawing on some internal strength. A glance passed between him and Mary. Sherlock couldn't read its meaning. Then John was looking straight at him, eyes searching for some answer.

"Right. Let me pack a few things and we can head to Baker Street. You seriously need a bath by the way Sherlock."

"You watch out for him Sherlock. He cares about you. He'll follow you anywhere. Make sure he follows you back out too."

"I will Mary," he said, kissing her cheek. Mary had her faults, human flaws deriding from sentiment and self-preservation, but her sins were no greater than his. He had broken John; she had fixed him.

They made one stop on their way back to Baker Street.

This time when they pulled up in a cab the banners were already unfurled to spell out a new word. John couldn't make it out. The first letter was twisted out of shape. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh.

"We need to go fix it."

"Of all the ways to communicate with Moriarty, you and Myc chose this one. A bit overcomplicated, don't you think? What's it supposed to say?" John asked.

"Pool," Sherlock replied. John was correct, this was a bothersome method. That was because it wasn't just Moriarty they wanted to give a message and this public display would ensure Moriarty didn't try to hide anything from whoever he was working for.

"This is what you and your brother decided would work best against a psychopath? An open invitation?"

Sherlock and John stepped out onto the roof, frightening the pigeons away from their perches. They took off in a noisy beating of feathers. The day was grey and overcast and Sherlock was glad he'd brought his great overcoat.

"When Moriarty realized I would call his bluff here on the roof, he pulled his trump card. He disappeared because I disappeared."

Sherlock replayed the events in his head. Moriarty was looking up into his eyes, the sun was looking down on them both, so bright it was making Moriarty's eyes water. Then the bang and Moriarty's blood washing the floor.

"He already guessed that I might be alive," Sherlock continued. "He had to be sure so he waited, pulling back and gathering new resources outside the threads of his old web."

"How is this not playing his game, Sherlock?"

"I'm dictating the terms of our next meeting. You do realize he could have killed us both by now."

"Then why hasn't he? Why all the subterfuge?" John asked with his hands shoved into his coat.

"Human error."

"What do you mean human error? You think Moriarty _likes _you? That this is his twisted way of telling you he has a crush?" John asked skeptically.

"No, he's already established that," Sherlock replied evenly.

"So Moriarty is gay. I thought he said that was all an act. And why would he think you like men? You haven't shown an interest in anyone the entire time I've known you," said John.

"That's not quite true," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Irene and Janine don't count, Sherlock."

"Why do you insist on labelling everything?" Sherlock asked.

John stepped closer to Sherlock and his voice was soft and low.

"You can't do this by yourself," John said.

"He'll understand this invitation. Your presence would upset the balance. I don't think we'd leave alive this time," Sherlock finally said.

"At least take my gun."

"Not necessary."

"Sherlock-"

John had closed the difference between them and suddenly they were back on the doorstep where they'd been just days before because John was holding Sherlock's hands and Sherlock was trying to control his breathing. John let his forehead drop onto Sherlock's chest and his breath was hot where it left his mouth.

"Please, John. Let me do this for you and Mary."

Sherlock could feel John's lips. They were kissing and nipping at his shirt and the skin beneath, sending little chills of pleasure through his entire body. He longed to reciprocate. _Too risky, too many complications._

"You've done enough, Sherlock. I couldn't ask for anything more. So let me come with you."

Sherlock raised one hand to that sandy blonde hair. It was coarse and thick in his fingers. John wrapped his free hand around Sherlock's waist and drew them closer together. This was not the closeness Sherlock remembered. This went beyond cold toes under thighs on a winter morning or brushing their teeth together in the bathroom after a shower, his lower half wrapped tightly in a white towel. This was something more. Something new. It was heat against heat, the feel of John's length pushing against his thigh, clear evidence that John also wanted him.

"I can't, John. Do you know what would happen if I did? Moriarty would make you his next target. It would be too irresistible. Sniper, poison, bomb – there are a thousand ways he could kill you and I couldn't stop him. I can only bend the rules so far."

His words twisted into themselves. He was begging John to follow the rules instead of breaking them. If John broke then he would break too. He only had so much self-control. He'd already proven his predilection towards addiction. He couldn't think of anything that would be more addicting than the feel of John's lips against his.

John reached up to hold onto his shoulders. They held still, John's head tilted back to look at Sherlock's face. Sherlock moved his head closer, barely breathing, lips slightly parted. Every time he thought John might give in to some catalyst of emotion, John would step back. Or he would. Because John was married to Mary now, he reminded himself.

"Time to go," Sherlock said softly and felt John stiffen in his arms. John took a step back.

"Always your way," he muttered, rubbing his face with one hand. His face had gone slightly pink and he hitched up his pants. Sherlock waited for John by the lift. And then he waited a few minutes longer. Five minutes later they both got on.

John was quiet on the ride back to 221b. The car door opened and John stepped out. He leaned his frame back into the door to look at Sherlock.

"I'd tell you to be careful but I know it wouldn't make a difference," John said.

"He wouldn't take me out this way. He's much too busy trying to be clever," Sherlock said.

"I notice you don't plan to take him out either," John replied.

"I'm not a criminal, John."

"Call me after. Let me know you're okay. And for God's sake don't do anything stupid," he said.

Sherlock hadn't left a time or date on the banner, simply the place. Still Sherlock had every confidence his nemesis would be there, arriving at the same time they'd met there previously. Events were a way of keeping time. The things you would never forget anchored you in place. It was a method to remembering things as well. By associating the colors and smells and feel of an event to a date, you secured even the smallest details into your mind. At this point he was so used to doing it that it became second nature, like backing up a file on your computer. If his mind was a computer then John's was his hard drive. Extra bits of data that he didn't have at his fingertips, easily accessed.

It was the same pool, blue water lapping quietly up the sides, throwing reflections on the walls. It had taken them three years to do this lap. Not much had changed between them in that time except Sherlock. And his mission tonight would be to hide this fact from Moriarty.

This time there was no waiting. James Moriarty was already there, feet dangling in the water. His socks were tucked neatly into the shoes at his side and he offered up an open smile as Sherlock walked over.

"Hi! Did you miss me?" James Moriarty called. His voice echoed up the walls.

"I didn't have the time," Sherlock replied casually. He took off his great coat and used it as a cushion as he sat beside Moriarty. The moist air smelled of chlorine and chemicals.

"All that work you did when you were dead, all that time away from John. Wasn't it tedious? So do you know what the new game is? Have you figured it out yet?"

"Of course. Magnussen was playing it when he blackmailed Mary to get to Mycroft. You're playing for the throne."

"Good! You caught that."

Anyone watching them from a distance might assume they were friends, maybe even lovers. They exchanged the same looks and spoke quietly and passionately to one another. There seemed to be a mutual understanding between them, as if unspoken thoughts were passing easily between them.

"And the fall?" Sherlock asked.

"I think we've had enough of_ that,_ don't you?"

"Out of curiosity, how did you survive? You put a bullet through your brain," Sherlock said.

"And you jumped off a building. Yet here we are! Do you want to know? The big reveal? I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"Fireman's net."

"Ohhh! Good thing you didn't miss when you jumped. That was a little dangerous, even for you," Moriarty giggled.

"It was necessary. And you?"

"Blanks. Not very exciting I know, but it got the job done. You didn't really think that I would think you were dead. So why didn't you check my body?" Moriarty asked, the lilt of his voice suggestive and crude.

"And risk that you would murder the only people I care about? Wasn't worth it."

"And then you jumped," Moriarty said, looking at him from under hooded eyes. "You know it wasn't really blanks," Moriarty said in a false whisper, leaning over toward Sherlock and chuckling to himself.

"Yes."

"Fireman's net. I don't think so. Ha! Booooring!"

Moriarty jumped up and unrolled the hems of his pants until they covered his wet legs.

"So why'd ya want to see me?" Moriarty asked. "I know it's been a long time, but this doesn't seem like much of a date."

Moriarty waved at Sherlock, waiting for him to fill the silence.

"Mary's no longer a target," Sherlock said.

"Oh, she's not? How disappointing," Moriarty replied in a sing-song voice.

"It's not Mary you want."

"I wouldn't want any of them except they're yours. And whatever is yours I want. The only way Mary wouldn't be a target is…. Oh oh! I see! That's good, Sherlock. Very clever. I'm not sure I believe it."

"The baby isn't his," Sherlock confirmed.

"Who cares! Mary is my message to John. She was mine and she'll always be mine. My own little spy madly in love with the very man she's supposed to be spying on. So hard to find good help these days."

"They are no longer cohabitating together. The baby isn't his. She's not a target," Sherlock replied.

"Fine fine fine. Can you sleep now? Oh that's riiiight. You have to figure out who is next. Which one will I pick? Eeney meanie miney moe. Will it be John? He's tempting, so tempting. He's my favorite. I think I might save him for last."

Moriarty stood up, holding his leather shoes carefully with two fingers.

"_Un_less you can think of a really good incentive for me to call this whole thing off. I can think of several ways that might happen." Moriarty leered down at Sherlock. Sherlock looked out at the water, not answering.

"No? Are you sure? Maybe next time. When the stakes are higher. Tootles!"

Moriarty strolled to the back door and was gone. Sherlock sat by the pool for a long time, head in his hands. When he walked back out the front doors he found John calmly standing with his hands behind his back, waiting as if Sherlock should be expecting him. His Browning was tucked into his pants at his back and his eyes were sharp and on the alert. Three men lay motionless at his feet.

"You followed me," Sherlock said, stunned.

"I didn't need to. You were pretty clear on where you were going. I was a little late however. I got here just as Moriarty was leaving."

"I would have been fine."

"You're an idiot," John replied, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

"I see you cleaned up after Moriarty."

Sherlock nudged a still body with one toe. The man moaned but didn't get up.

"Self-defense," John said with a straight face.

The ride home was more comfortable than it had been previously. John kept glancing over at him and smiling like a maniac and Sherlock couldn't help smiling back. It was late when they came in and Mrs. Hudson had already turned in. Up in the flat they watched television together until John fell asleep on the sofa. His head slumped onto Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock leaned over to breath in the warm scent of his best and only friend.

Sherlock watched as John's face changed with the hours. Then John sighed and turned away. A single word left his lips.

"Mary."

Sherlock left to find the comfort of his own bed. His hand stretched out to the empty space besides him. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head away. Sleep was a long time in coming.

Notes: I hope the use of a banner sits okay. I didn't want to use his or John's blogs again (as they did in the show). And it makes sense if they are trying to send a message to someone other than Moriarty. It was fun to pen their conversation by the pool. The boys are so desperate for each other! (When are they not?) The next chapter is "The Next Target".


	7. Chapter 7 - the Next Target

In his mind Sherlock always pictured John waking him with a gentle shake of the shoulder. Sherlock would let his hand cover John's, not opening his eyes as he smelled the minty toothpaste they both used, the scent of his shampoo lingering in John's hair. And John would lean over and something would happen, something and anything but this holding pattern they were being forced to maintain.

In reality John threw pillows. Pillows from the chairs, pillows from his bed, even sofa cushions. One at a time and each time John passed his door. The onslaught would continue until Sherlock dragged himself up out of bed. He would march into the kitchen to drink his tea while it was still hot with as much dignity and poise as he could, John snickering at him from over his tea cup. John enjoyed his tea at a ridiculously high temperate. But he made Sherlock's tea always at the perfect temperature and just the way he liked it.

This morning was different. He could hear John rummaging around in the kitchen, the sound of the refrigerator door, the quiet voices on the television. Sherlock drew his sheet around his body and opened his bedroom door. John was sitting down in front of the tube with two slices of toast and a glass of orange juice. He was still in his jim-jams and hadn't had a shave. His hair was off at odd angles so he hadn't had a shower yet. That would explain why he hadn't woken up Sherlock. He had himself only just awaken.

Sherlock could have stood in the doorway watching John all morning but nature called. He gave a halfhearted wave at John as he passed, which John ignored. Twenty minutes later Sherlock was still wearing a sheet even though he'd shaved and showered and brushed his teeth. He flopped down on the sofa next to John. John scooted over closer to him until their thighs were touching. Sherlock felt his face warming. Perhaps a sheet wasn't the best choice of garments this morning.

"So what happened last night?" John asked, not taking his eyes from the Doctor Who episode he was watching.

"Exactly as I predicted. Moriarty agreed Mary was no longer a target."

"Well you were in there awhile. What else did he say then?" John prompted.

"He suggested we have sex."

John swallowed toast down his airway and coughed violently. Sherlock gave him a few light uncertain pats on his back. John took a gulp of juice, wiping at his watery eyes. He turned towards Sherlock and you didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to see the disbelief written there.

"He said that?" John asked.

"Not in so many words. It was implied," Sherlock replied.

"Implied how?"

"What does it matter, John?"

"I'd like to know," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached over to take a slice of John's toast.

"He said there were several incentives I could offer to ensure the game ended," said Sherlock.

"Well. Um, what did you say?" John asked.

"I didn't say anything. I'm not interested."

They both sat in silence, then the Daleks were trying to overrun Manhattan and John's attention was fixed entirely on the screen. They watched together until John stretched and put his arm on the back of the sofa. Sherlock wiggled down into the warm space between John and the sofa. How he had missed this. John's hand cupped around Sherlock's shoulder, his fingers working their way under the sheet to stroke at the bare skin.

"Are you not interested in Moriarty or not interested in sex?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock took in a sharp breath besides him, pulling the sheet tighter around him.

"Moriarty," he answered softly.

John reached across him to the small table and found the remote. The television clicked off.

"We need to talk," John said.

"I thought we were," Sherlock replied.

"We need to talk about us, Sherlock. You know, it isn't normal for mates to do this kind of thing. You don't seem to mind and I don't mind, but this isn't what normal people do. It's not what a married man should do. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"How long are going to let the constructs of society dictate the boundaries of our relationship? You can't project the word friendship onto the two of us so that we fit into some arbitrary mold," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms and scooting back to the other side of the sofa.

"So you don't want anything else? You're completely satisfied with things remaining this way?" John questioned him. Sherlock's heart fluttered oddly in his chest and then was roaring his ears.

"I care about you John. And I care about Mary."

"No, that's not what I meant and don't pretend like you think it is. You're just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear."

"And it's not?"

John cleared his throat.

"Please tell me Sherlock. We can't… I can't make a decision until I know for sure what you want."

Sherlock closed his eyes. There was always the usual option of feigning ignorance and falling back on his years of apparent asexuality. He thought back to their recent case, when John had deduced the victim was bisexual. He had been honest with Sherlock in that moment. He'd said that in front of Lestrade. His heart was hammering in his chest and his brain was screaming at him to back off. Sherlock opened his mouth and something else took over. Maybe it was desperation. His answer surprised even him.

"I want you, John."

"Oh thank god," John laughed and he pulled Sherlock's head to his.

The kiss was tender, a slide of lips against lips. John was careful, exploring the curve of Sherlock's lips with gentle licks and warm sighs. Sherlock held onto his seat cushion, anchoring himself to the reality of being kissed by John. When they broke apart it was to look at one another. They both shared the same look of amazement. John's face was glowing, full of a warmth Sherlock had never seen. This was John without all the barriers and guards up. John wanted this. He wanted him.

"Well, that just happened," John said, clearing his throat.

Sherlock raised his fingers to his mouth, feeling his lips. They were warm and tingled with small biting shocks. John watched him with lids half-closed. The lust behind them sent a bolt of heat right to his groin. John's hands were untangling the sheet, pulling on the edges. John paused, hanging his head.

"Oh god Sherlock, I've wanted to do that for so long. You are the most brilliant human being I've ever known. But I can't do this right now. I have to sort things out with Mary. She's my wife. She and I talked about this happening - that it might happen I mean. She said I'd have to decide who I wanted to choose."

"You married her. You chose her. You can't give her up."

_I can't ruin that too._

Sherlock tugged the sheet around him like a blanket, disappearing into its folds. His could feel his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. His body was aching with want and it was making him desperate. He needed John and he needed him now. He craved that firm body over his until he was panting and lost. And yet he owed John so much. He wouldn't let John throw away the only good thing in his life for someone as damaged and broken as he was. For all the lies Mary had told his transgressions were greater. She was running from her past, but Sherlock had been running from his future.

"Don't you tell me what I can and can't do. It's my decision."

There was a gentle tap at the door. Lestrade had come up the stairs and was standing in the doorway and Sherlock wasn't sure when he'd been so distracted. Lestrade shuffled his feet and his eyes were firmly on the floor. Sherlock could tell he wasn't embarrassed by his ridiculous grin. Lestrade looked positively cheerful compared to his usual demeanor.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Sorry for interrupting," Lestrade said.

"Nothing to interrupt," John growled.

Lestrade took a few tentative steps into the sitting room. John walked over and swiped the paper from his hands. He practically threw it at Sherlock before collapsing into his chair.

"Boys at NSY got it this morning. It was addressed to you," Lestrade said.

Sherlock weighed it in his hand then held it up to the light. In a bold font five words were written: **The east wind is coming**.

"How could Moriarty possibly know about that?" John asked.

_It's coming to get you, Sherlock._

The world stopped, all sounds and movement stilled in this moment. In his ears he heard the slow beating sound of a drum and realized it was his heart. A glass mirror shattered within his mind palace, leaving his reflection torn apart within its shards. He reached out his hand and the broken glass fell. His reflection still remained, smirking back at him, a different person with the same face.

The world began to move again. Sherlock wordlessly rushed into his bedroom, leaving Lestrade to gape after him. He threw on slacks and a shirt, working the buttons with dexterity of fingers that came from years of playing his violin.

"Do you need me to come with you?" John called down the stairs.

"Not this time. I'll explain everything later," he called back.

"Fancy a pint, John?" Sherlock heard Lestrade ask. He didn't wait for John's reply as he fled out the door and into a cab.

Urgent. –SH

Understood. –MH

Uncharacteristically he found Mycroft was waiting for him at the curb as the cab pulled up. Sherlock handed him the letter, its neat creases folded down perfectly. The letter went into a deep pocket in Mycroft's suit. Mycroft shut the door behind them and turned the lock with a quiet click. They each sat down in opposite chairs, neither speaking. Mycroft finally lowered the sheet of paper and sighed.

"This wasn't information we gave to Moriarty," he said.

"Maybe you did and you've forgotten."

"I would say it's not possible, but obviously it is. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'll look into it," Mycroft said.

"Do try and be quick about it."

Mycroft pursed his lips and studied Sherlock. The clock on the mantel ticked quietly, counting the seconds as they passed.

"Give my best to Mary," Mycroft finally said. Sherlock felt his ears heat up and sulked back into his chair.

"Piss off Mycroft."

"Language. What would mummy say?"

"How's the diet going?"

From his coat pocket his phone began to ring. Only one person would be calling him now.

"What's happened?" he asked John, pushing himself up from the plush high backed chair. Mycroft was already unlocking the door and he strode out into the hallway in one fluid motion.

"You'd better get to the hospital, Sherlock. He's poisoned them both."

John was pacing in a waiting room full of plastic chairs and fake flowers. A small television displayed the afternoon news, the newscasters' heads bobbing without sound. John rubbed at his eyes and sat down heavily.

"I think it was something in the tea. Greg and I were going out to grab a pint when Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray. It seemed rude not to stay a few more minutes. It smelled like peppermint and you know how I hate peppermint so I didn't have any. They both passed out within a few minutes. No don't. I can see what you're doing to yourself. This isn't your fault."

"I should have seen this coming," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson took care of him. She took care of John. Her forgiveness had been instant and complete when he returned to London. He'd lost his focus and those around him were suffering. Again. He needed to keep his focus. There wasn't time for anything else.

"I doubt Lestrade was the intended target but now that Moriarty has put him out of commission that only leaves you. There have been several attempts to gain a measure of control over the British government by using my brother. The Woman used Bond Air as leverage. Magnussen intended to use me to influence Mycroft. So whatever Moriarty plans to do next it will be a power play."

Sherlock went into the hospital room where Mrs. Hudson lay unmoving, hooked up to monitors with tubes running up and down her body. He pulled the plastic chair closer to the bed and took her hand in his. The heart monitor bleeped in a regular rhythm, the only sound in the quiet room. He looked up to see John smiling at him. John placed one hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. He didn't move it away like Sherlock expected, only left it there until it was time to leave.

"Let's go back to the flat, yeah?" John said quietly. Sherlock glanced up at John reading the tension in shoulders, watching the fingers fidget with edge of his jumper.

"You and Mary are taking some time apart. Why?"

"Because I need to. Unless you'd rather I crash at Sarah's," John said, looking away.

"You're always welcome John."

John nodded and made his way to the door. Sherlock tried hard to clear his mind, not thinking of what it could all mean.

Notes: Wow! A lot happens in this chapter. A first kiss (finally!), Moriarty's move to poison Mrs. Hudson, and an important sheet of paper. I loved writing the scene between Mycroft and Sherlock. If you have a brother you know that fighting doesn't suddenly stop at a certain age, it just becomes more subtle. Onto the next chapter, "Things Get Messy".


	8. Chapter 8 - Things Get Messy

It was early in the morning and John was in the kitchen cooking up some eggs for breakfast. He was wearing his typical clinic clothes – faded trousers, plaid shirt, sensible shoes. And he was humming. The central tonal structure_ (C major) _and the simple melody were characteristic of most pop songs. Sherlock didn't recognize the tune.

Sherlock crept in behind him and stood watching, so quiet that John didn't realize he was there until he backed up right into him.

"Next time tell me you're there, you-"

John didn't finish his sentence and his whole body went stiff before relaxing again. Sherlock backed away, hoping John wouldn't demand an explanation to his obvious state of arousal.

"Oh," John said softly.

He turned around and pushed at Sherlock until his back was up against the wall. It was ridiculous that John could overwhelm him like this. He was over a head taller and had a black belt in Judo. He opened his mouth to tell John just that. At the same time John pushed up his hips, rocking against him, and the words came out as a whimper instead.

The eggs were burning on the stove and maybe they would set off the fire alarm or leave the flat smelling of sulfur for the rest of the day. Sherlock didn't care because John had wedged one leg between his and was thrusting up against him. Sherlock soon joined him, hips pushing back into John. He could feel how hot and hard John was against his leg and the knowledge burned down hot into his stomach. Their rhythm became faster and more intense until Sherlock was moaning aloud. John was panting against him, his forehead damp and his eyes tightly closed.

Sherlock kept his eyes open until he passed the point of inevitable climax. He came moaning John's name like a prayer and John shouted Sherlock's name just once before he followed. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's before he opened his eyes again. John pulled away under his gaze and ran his hands through his hair.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said.

Sherlock hadn't either. And then it did and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, one action destined to follow another in a pattern that broke up only at the end, when they came crashing back down together.

"I need to change for work," John muttered. He turned around and grabbed the ruined eggs, scraping them into the rubbish bin.

"You can't go to work," Sherlock said, insistent.

"I have a life outside these walls. I have patients depending on me."

"Mycroft has 24 hour surveillance on Baker Street. It's safe here," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock I need this. As much as I'd want to I can't sit here snogging you all day. I have to talk to Mary. She's expecting me after work. And don't tell me she'll be a target if I do because I know better. Moriarty is after you, not me. I think he saw something between us long before either one of us could admit it was there. That being said, he's not going to act now."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked. John sounded so confident, as if he were seeing something Sherlock could not.

"Because he's smart. As smart as you. He has to know I haven't actually left Mary. So he probably suspects you're trying to draw him out by using me as bait. You can't force his hand, Sherlock. He'll wait. He waited three years to let you know he was alive. I'm sure he can wait a few more weeks or even months before he makes his next move. Whatever his plans are he'll execute them flawlessly unless you can stay one step ahead of him. And I don't think this is the way to do it."

Sherlock was speechless as he stared at John.

"That was brilliant," Sherlock finally said.

"I think that's my line," John replied, lips turning up.

"Brilliant," Sherlock repeated solemnly as he ducked his head, offering his mouth to John. He took it, swallowing Sherlock's moans as his tongue flirted and teased. John pulled away first.

"I have to see Mary. I can't go on like this. It's not fair to you and it's not fair to her," said John.

Sherlock glanced away. He couldn't protect Mary without hurting John. And John was risking his own happiness for an emotionally challenged and sexually inexperienced sociopath. John deserved more than these stolen moments. He deserved Mary. It would be easy to give John a reason to go back to her. He could think of eleven off the top of his head. They were all lies.

"You should phone her," Sherlock finally suggested.

"No I can't Sherlock. She's my wife. This has to be done in person. I'll be back late, yeah? Try not to worry."

After a fresh set of clothing John was out the door, leaving Sherlock to hunt for his phone. It wasn't in the fridge, or under his bed, or in the shower. He found it wedged between two sofa cushions and set it on the coffee table next to the envelope from Mycroft. He stared at them both with steepled hands then reached for the side table.

Sherlock pulled out three nicotine patches. He peeled one onto his forearm and lay down on the sofa, staring up at the web of lines on the ceiling. He drifted, not really thinking as much as allowing his mind to lead where it would. His ears picked up the traffic outside, moving to its own beat, the sounds a symphony of horns and mufflers and squeaking brakes. He put on the second patch and then the third. If he closed his eyes everything would whirl around in a kaleidoscope of colors. Instead he kept them open as the hours passed. At some point his stomach rumbled but he ignored it and the hunger passed as it always did.

His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt when Mrs. Hudson backed into the sitting room with a small tray of tea and scones. He could smell the steeping tea from the sofa. Strong. Earl Grey. Yorkshire Gold. Mrs. Hudson was obviously pleased at something he'd done.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said.

"You haven't eaten all day. Have a scone. They're your favorite."

Sherlock sat up with a sigh, peeling off the nicotine patches. They weren't working for him. He felt more wound up instead of recharged. The fact that he hadn't eaten or slept in the last two days might have something to do with that.

"What have I done?" Sherlock asked. His mind moved through the last twenty-four hours and nothing extraordinary was apparent.

"As if you didn't know," Mrs. Hudson beamed. "You two! It's lovely."

"You two? You two who?" Sherlock said.

"It's too bad he's left Mary. Maybe it's for the best. You seem so happy."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock did take a cup of tea and one scone. Eventually he moved into his bedroom and dressed in his black slacks and a dark blue button up shirt. Curled up on the sofa he watched what John referred to as "junk television". It was late in the evening when he finally heard John's footsteps below. The door slammed shut and there was a loud thump as he missed the second stair and swore loudly. Heavy footsteps up the seventeen stairs and then a pause at the door. Sherlock had witnessed this behavior several times before. John was inebriated.

"Things didn't go well with Mary," Sherlock said as John stumbled into the sitting room. He sat down in his chair looking miserable.

"Do you know what she said?" John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and John held up one finger.

"It was a rhetorical question. She said you were trying to manipulate me, that all you care about is catching Moriarty. And I thought about Janine, how you asked her to marry you for Christ sake. Is that what you're doing to me?"

"If I was it hasn't worked. Moriarty is still in hiding," Sherlock replied.

"Not helping," John said.

John rubbed at his eyes and then blinked repeatedly. _(Impaired vision suggests five pints_). They sat in silence until John spoke again.

"When I thought you were dead I saw you everywhere. There was one day when I saw you from across the street. Your hair was cropped and you were wearing sunglasses, watching me. I tried to follow you. I almost got hit getting across the street."

"I wasn't in London."

"I know that. But you don't know how hard it was. And then to have some hope that you were still alive only to lose you again. It made me realize how much I cared about you. And I still don't know if you feel the same way."

John groaned and held onto his head.

"Go to bed John. We can have this conversation in the morning, when you aren't intoxicated," Sherlock snapped. He knew he sounded disgusted. He was disgusted. He didn't want to have this discussion under these conditions. This was not John's shining hour.

John leaned forward until his hands were on Sherlock's knees. They moved in slow circles up his legs until Sherlock was melting and shivering under the touch. He could feel John's nails digging lightly into his flesh through his trousers. The palms stroked his thighs as they traveled higher and higher.

"Come to bed with me," John whispered in a low voice.

Sherlock sat back in surprise. John continued to massage with his hands but Sherlock couldn't feel it because all the blood had left his legs and was pooling into his stomach instead. Sometimes they slept together and John would curl up into the crook of his arm. They would wake up with their legs entwined and a wall of heat between their bodies. Then John would mutter something about a shower, leaving Sherlock hungry for something he knew John didn't want. In those morning hours he knew John was thinking of Mary, of the small betrayals each stolen kiss had brought. He should feel some guilt like John obviously did. All he thought on those mornings was how much more they both deserved, especially John. And even Mary. Life had thrown them together in some sick triangle where the actions of one influenced them all.

"Why?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Because I want you to, you git."

Sherlock just shook his head, not daring to speak when he was so desperate to say yes. His body was already betraying him. He was rock hard against the constraints of his trousers and his pulse danced through his veins.

"Why the hell not?"

John stared up at him, breathing hard.

"It matters…you matter more to me than some drunken liaison."

John's bedroom door slammed shut a few seconds later. Sherlock pulled out his slipper from under the sofa and searched out a cigarette with two fingers. He sat smoking in his chair, exhaling with slow deliberate breaths. By his sixth cigarette he was blowing elaborate smoke rings, sending smaller circles through the larger ones. An hour later they were gone.

Notes: More examples of John being clever, deducing that Moriarty would wait until the opportune moment to act against John and not before. More unresolved tension with Mary at the center. It broke my heart that Sherlock turned down John (and I was the one writing it!) The only thing left to do is more on to the next chapter "A Case, Flatmates, and More".


	9. A Case, Flatmates, and More

Life resumed at Baker Street. John sometimes came back from clinic and sometimes he didn't. He knew where John spent those nights away because where else would he go? He wondered if Mary lay alone in her bed the nights John wasn't there, thinking about him and Sherlock together, wondering what they were doing.

It turned out they weren't doing much of anything. None of the cases were above a 6 and Sherlock solved them anyway because that's what John wanted. There was dinner at Angelo's, redeemed only by John's presence. He really wasn't hungry – Mrs. Hudson had taken to leaving buttered toast with his tea and most of the time he ate it. Finally there was time together in front of the telly. Not nearly as interesting with John seated completely on the other side of the sofa.

It was early in the evening and John had returned to Baker Street, a small victory considering how angry he was that morning. Sherlock had forgotten to dispose of the rat eyes and they had been decomposing in the sink. John found them when he tried to do the dishes.

Now John was here, up in his old room, and Sherlock could hear him pleading gently, then demanding firmly, and finally hollering into his phone.

"I deserve to know," John said, storming back into the sitting room. He fell back into his chair, staring at his phone.

"About her time with Moriarty," Sherlock said. His fingers were plucking aimlessly at the tight strings of his violin, feeling them vibrate across the instrument. He paused as John remained silent, his shoulders hunched over his phone.

"No not that," he replied. He rubbed his free hand through his hair.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be quiet. If John knew the baby wasn't his then he would guess that Sherlock also knew. Another fight. Another week or maybe even two of quiet mornings and dull afternoons without John. Or this could be the thing that broke their friendship. How much deception would John tolerate from him?

"You know what, maybe I don't want to know," John said, studying his hands. Then he walked to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Somehow his calmness was more upsetting than his anger. When John came out again they didn't talk about it. John sat in his chair, reading the paper, and Sherlock pretended he was occupied on his computer.

The week dragged by without a whisper from Moriarty. At the end of the week Mrs. Hudson returned to Baker Street. John constantly fussed over her, telling her not to overdo it. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The woman wasn't made of glass. Her second day back she dropped a tray of biscuits at the top of the stairs and the tea pot shattered loudly against the floor.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. My hand slipped," she said with tears in her eyes.

"Nonsense. It's fair play considering you constantly are subjected to my mess," Sherlock reassured her as he bent down to help clean up the pieces.

She had hugged him there where they both knelt on the floor. For a moment he allowed himself to rest his head on her shoulder. She released her hold and he turned to see John looking down at them both. John's eyes were lit with a genuine smile. It warmed his entire face even though it was small and quiet. John's eyes were soft and open as they looked at him. John Watson had never looked at Mary like that. He had never looked at Sherlock like that either. Not until now. Sherlock smiled back carefully.

It was easy and comfortable to slip into their old roles as flatmates. Sherlock used the kitchen for experimentation and John complained about it as he put the groceries from Tesco into the fridge. John started each morning on his computer, typing with two fingers in a slow clack-clack that made Sherlock cringe.

"Shouldn't you give up writing that blog?" Sherlock asked.

"If you stop leaving comments I'll give up writing," John replied without looking up.

Lestrade had also returned to work and it wasn't long before Sherlock's phone blipped with an incoming text.

"An 8 John!" he shouted, spinning around in slow happy circles in some unorthodox waltz.

"Shouldn't we be waiting for Moriarty?" John asked.

"And miss this case? It's a 8! He'll text if he needs us."

'I really don't understand you genius types," John muttered.

"Yet here you are," Sherlock said.

"God help me."

In a mad dash about London they followed a suspect to an old dilapidated house that Sherlock recognized from his uni days. He didn't mention this to John as they crouched in the thin cover of the bushes. John had drawn his gun and was breathing heavily from their last sprint.

"What's he doing in there?" John whispered.

"Procuring drugs," Sherlock answered.

"How do you… nevermind. I don't want to know."

The minutes passed and Sherlock nudged John again as his eyes started to droop. The clouds swallowed the moon and left them drifting in the darkness. Time seemed to stand still, the waiting drawn out by the lateness of the hour and the stillness of the night. It was without a breeze, stagnant and quiet. John had slumped against the wall and from his breathing he seemed fast asleep. A door opened with a soft creek above them and John shot up like he'd heard gunfire. _(Soldier's instinct)._ John couldn't see him so Sherlock leaned close, his lips finding John's ear, John's hair tickling his nose.

"Wait until he reaches the street."

A light came on from inside the house, bathing the sidewalk outside with sudden light and making his eyes water. Their suspect came out, tripping down the stairs and looking around with dazed empty eyes. Behind him followed three lean men clearly of Southeast Asian descent _(small stature, distinct facial features, darker skin coloring)._ Their eyes scanned the space around them in a way that suggested martial arts training, most likely Muay Thai given their heritage and the fact that they were carrying both guns and knives.

Sherlock held up his arm to block John and shook his head. The odds were not in their favor. Without hesitation John ducked under his arm and stepped around the corner of the house, gun in his hands. The still night was spoiled by two loud cracks, one after the other. John had fired two shots into the sky. The men ducked down, holding their heads in their hands. John had expected the reaction, one he'd seen hundreds of times in Afghanistan. It was an instinct that came from self-preservation. John reached the closest one and held the Browning firmly to his head.

"I hadn't planned on killing anyone today," he said calmly and without remorse. It was John's easy self-confidence that kept the man at his feet from attempting to disarm him. The way John held himself without fear made the man uncertain. Sherlock stared at the once soldier, now blogger and felt a shiver run up his spine. He licked his lips, holding his gaze to John when his attention should have been on the suspect and his companions.

Sherlock had kissed that mouth and he wanted to do it again, right here in front of the house he used to love and hate, as if their sweet ceremony could undo the dark mistakes of his past. More than that he wanted their bodies pressed together without past regrets between the slide of their skin. He could picture John naked if he wanted. He had enough data from morning showers, slipped towels, and the occasional nude dart from the bathroom to the linen closet for a clean flannel. That skin used to be golden under the Afghan sun. The tan had faded. The white, pink, and red scars remained. His mouth wanted to lick every one so his tongue could feel how each was different.

"You don't want any trouble. Leave the boy with us," John suggested.

The men fled together back into the house and their suspect lowered his hands from his ears and gazed upwards in confusion. John looked pointedly at Sherlock until he hurried over.

"I suggest we eliminate any temptation our presence may have," Sherlock said.

"What's your name?" John asked, holstering the gun into his pants.

"Ryan."

"Let's get you somewhere safe, Ryan," John said.

They each wrapped an arm around their necks and Ryan moved forward with a slow gait. When they reached the main street and Sherlock trusted they hadn't been followed, he allowed John to pull out a small torch and examine Ryan's eyes and mouth, then the needle tracks running up his arm.

Sherlock reached down into Ryan's coat pocket and came away with a small black bag. He dumped the gemstones into his hand. The largest was a flawless nugget and blue-green in color. Sherlock held it into the beam of the torch, turned his head just a fraction, and the color shifted to purple.

John plucked one from his palm and held it up to the dim streetlights.

"I've never seen this kind of gem before. It changed color!"

"Alexandrite, a variety of chrysoberyl. These particular stones are of the finest quality, indicated by their brilliant color. Its rarity makes it more valuable than diamonds."

"That is amazing. How did you know he would have it?"

"He didn't even know he had it. That's the beauty of it! The clue was in the coat. Our thief was assaulting only male drug addicts. What could an assailant possibly want from a youth with little money or valuables? Something he didn't know he had. And the one thing the victims all had in common was the black coats they wore, particularly the brand and style."

In the cab on the ride back they were both quiet. Sherlock looked out the window and watched the lights of the city as they came then retreated. Faces moved past in a blur too quick to be analyzed. They were ordinary unimportant people, unreachable to his ever searching mind. He found their non-presence soothing.

John's hand crept over the seat and found Sherlock's leg. Sherlock whipped his head around in surprise. John was smiling softly at him. He reached one arm over to pull Sherlock closer. The hand moved up to his head, into his curls, almost like a massage. Then it stroked in small circles over his jaw and down his neck. Sherlock bit his lip hard and tried not to make a sound. John's face was so close to his, their noses were touching then rubbing together gently.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me," Sherlock said. John's lips found Sherlock's so quickly their teeth banged together. It was a hard kiss and sloppy but there was no doubt who was in control. Sherlock let his body relax, submitting to the wet hungry mouth above his.

Sherlock moved his hands over John's jacket then under his shirt. The feel of John's skin under his fingertips was incredible. He felt (but couldn't see) scars from shrapnel. There, a slightly raised welt indicating a surgical procedure. Every inch of John's skin was a distraction.

"I said we're here," the driver called from the front, looking pointedly ahead.

"Right, sorry mate," John replied, pulling away. He gave Sherlock a soft laugh. Sherlock wondered if he looked as flushed and happy as John. He drew himself up, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the driver's mirror.

"Come on already Sherlock," John said.

They tumbled through the door together, kissing and laughing while they tried to remove coats and scarves and shoes. John leaned over to help pull Sherlock's arm through his coat and then he stopped, grinning wickedly. He held Sherlock's arm in place and backed him into the wall. Then he grabbed Sherlock's free arm and held it over his head, pinning him in place.

Sherlock breathed softly out and his whole body gave a shudder. The wall was solid and real behind his back but everything else was spinning. The floor barely held up his legs and the room danced in vivid colors in front of his face. At the center of it all was John. John's lips touching him, John's tongue coaxing his mouth open, John's hands holding his in place. The kisses were long and deliberate and Sherlock returned them as best he could.

"Okay there?" John asked softly.

Sherlock managed a slight nod.

"Let's go upstairs. Mrs. Hudson is still recovering. Don't want to send her back to the hospital," John said.

John pulled Sherlock up behind him, no hesitancy in his steps. He was so confident, so commanding, so everything that Sherlock wanted. Any minute he would wake up in his own bed, alone in 221b.

"Don't leave me John," Sherlock whispered.

John's fingers tightened on his hand. His mouth turned down and he looked away.

"Let's just… take it as it goes for now."

They found themselves in the sitting room and John's hands were on his chest, trailing down, weaving a line to the edge of his pants. John ran his fingers back and forth under the pant line, brushing against his erection. Sherlock leaned into the touch, feeling hot and impatient.

"Want to take these off?" John asked, tugging at the trousers. Sherlock nodded and John quickly worked the flies and pulled them down to his feet. The sofa was behind them and John pushed Sherlock until he fell back onto its cushions. Sherlock's hands were clenched at his sides as John knelt down between his legs and palmed him through his boxers.

John leaned over and lapped at the spot of pre-cum that stained his pants. Then he was licking up and down in long stripes until the silk boxers were damp and tight across his cock. His mouth sucked through fabric and everything was warm, so warm. There was the sudden feeling of cold air as John pulled down the damp pants, then warmth again as John's mouth found his length.

It had been so long since anyone had touched him or had their mouth on him, and he was already so wound up from the unrelieved tension of the last few weeks that he thought he might spill out right there. His thighs tightened and he quivered all over. John pulled away and they froze a minute. Sherlock felt control slowly slipping back in place. Then John's hand was working together with his mouth in a rhythm that brought him right to the edge again and threatened to take him apart. Sherlock bit down on the knuckles of one hand as he whimpered.

"No, don't do that," John said softly, pulling his hand down. "I want to hear you."

He ducked his head again and this time Sherlock gave in to the moans coming from his chest. He knew he was saying John's name. His hands were holding John's head and he was pleading, completely undone. He felt John pull away and groaned with frustration.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock," John said, giving Sherlock's thighs little nips.

"I want you John," he whispered with his eyes closed.

"Only me," John growled and it wasn't a question.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he took in the man kneeling between his spread legs. Those piercing eyes demanded obedience. John would only look more the soldier if he had a uniform on.

"Only you," Sherlock repeated because there was no one else and he didn't want anyone else. And then John's hand was pumping him hard and he broke. His hips jerked up as the waves broke over his body. John had already drawn open his flies and with a few quick pulls he was coming onto Sherlock's stomach.

With what strength he had left Sherlock pulled John up on the sofa with him. They held each other for a long time before moving to wash up. When they went to bed that night Sherlock was curled besides John. He wasn't quite asleep when he heard the sound he'd been waiting for. From the pocket of his dressing gown a phone was ringing.

"Hope I didn't wake you," came Moriarty's voice.

"I wasn't sleeping," Sherlock replied, carefully shutting John's door behind him.

"You've got your playmate back."

Sherlock paused in the sitting room. He stared into the mirror above the fireplace, consciously smoothing out the lines of worry he saw on his face. He whirled around, phone pressed to his ear. He knew exactly what he needed to say. It was just painful to say it.

"John is my bishop, a piece to be wielded with precision. He's also completely in my control. Anything he feels for me I use to direct his actions. You think I care for him? I let him think I was dead for two years. He's my protection. I'm not his."

"Prove it," Moriarty growled.

Sherlock paced the floor. If Moriarty was a puppet as he and Mycroft suspected, then that left someone bigger, someone who had been playing with them since the beginning. Sherlock knew who Mycroft suspected but there was only one way to find out.

"All those wheels and gears in your head, clogging with feelings. I thought you were above that," Moriarty said in a bored voice, as if the entire conversation were beneath him. Sherlock could picture Moriarty looking down at his neatly manicured nails, lips drawn back in disgust.

"You're mistaken," Sherlock said as casually as he could.

"Oh I don't think so Sherlock. Love is slowing you down."

"I am not in love with John Watson!" Sherlock snapped, angry at himself for losing control of the conversation.

"Prove it," Moriarty repeated. "I know what you want. Don't play dumb with me."

"The king," Sherlock whispered.

"Bingo! Good luck keeping your bishop until you find him."

Sherlock stared at the silent phone before he threw it against the wall in sudden frustration. He hadn't felt this uncertain since the fall from Bart's. There were too many variables and he needed new information, not the same dribble.

From the corner of his eye he caught a movement on the stairs. John was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His face was thunderous.

"John I-"

"It's all fine Sherlock," John said, even though every line of his body indicated otherwise. "It's all been a guise to draw out Moriarty. I understand."

Sherlock felt his attempt at an explanation fall away from his lips. This was better than anything he could have planned. John would go back to Mary and their lives could move forward. The ache deep in his chest would subside with time. He was sure of it.

"You've done nothing but lie and manipulate me. Mary was right about you."

John was already back up the stairs. Sherlock let him go. He had no choice. He had made a vow. The next morning John left for work almost immediately on waking. There was no affection or words of affirmation, only a cold distance like a wall between them. John did not return home that evening or the next day.

Notes: Ah yeah! We finally get to some real smut. I find the plot and dialogue and cases much easier to write, which is hysterical considering how much fanfic I've read. This chapter has BMAF!John, my favorite and possessive John even. And of course ends with a great big pile on angst. Sorry 'bout that. The case was taken from Doyle's literature (Six Napoleons). Next chapter is entitled "Brothers".


	10. Brothers

"This matter requires we meet."

"I'd rather not," Sherlock replied.

"I insist."

"I decline," Sherlock snapped. 'If you need to talk to me so urgently come to Baker Street."

The voice on the other end of the phone sighed delicately. Sherlock pictured his brother rubbing his eyes with his fingers in exasperation.

"You know I can't. I have sensitive business to attend to. A compromise. We meet at the café."

"The bakery. They have excellent cake."

"The café, Sherlock!"

Mycroft had almost hung up the phone. Sherlock could tell. A close victory but not complete.

"Two o'clock, Sherlock," Mycroft said more calmly before hanging up.

Sherlock rolled off his bed and onto the pillows and blankets on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling. It became increasingly uninteresting until getting dressed seemed like a better option. The blue phone went in his suit pocket. He never went anywhere without it.

His early arrival was carefully premeditated to annoy Mycroft. Sherlock was perpetually late, which meant Mycroft would plan to arrive late. The surprised arch of one eyebrow as his brother joined him at his table was worth the wait he'd had to endure. Mycroft pulled his chair out and it scraped along the floor, screeching loudly. Mycroft winced.

"Aren't we above these childish games? There are matters of national importance to discuss," he said.

Sherlock gloated into his coffee. It turned into a scowl as Mycroft continued.

"Finding Moriarty and putting an end to this threat is imperative to a full pardon. It's been two months, Sherlock. The wrong people are starting to question the validity of your return. When the right people join them there may be consequences neither of us can forsee. I told you not to get involved."

"I'm not involved," Sherlock muttered.

"You're distracted," Mycroft replied.

_Stalemate._

"I don't have any more information. It doesn't make sense! Why would Moriarty concentrate his efforts on John? Doesn't he have a criminal underworld to run?" Sherlock said.

"It does all seem very personal. Surprising considering how little you know of him. Which suggests a deeper motivation," Mycroft said, studying his nails.

"I can't ask John to be a walking target."

"He already is," Mycroft replied. "Can you surmise what will happen to him if you ignore Moriarty? I've already placed a call to John. He'll cooperate."

"You sound very confident," Sherlock said.

"Mary is due any day. Imagine if this matter hasn't been settled by then. The child would be under constant threat. John wants to see this resolved as quickly as possible. To ensure he and Mary can return to their blissful domestic lives of course."

Sherlock's eyes dropped to Mycroft's hand. The fingers were twilling the umbrella about the floor. Mycroft's body was still except for that one significant motion. His words were meant to draw his attention to John and away from something else.

"What aren't you telling me?" Sherlock asked.

The umbrella stopped moving and Mycroft gripped the handle.

"Damn," Mycroft said.

"Now who's being childish? How do you expect me to work without all significant pieces of information? Given your presence here today and the delicate matter of state you refuse to discuss I gather that some threat was received. What was the nature of that threat?"

Mycroft took a sip of tea before continuing. A small bell chimed as the door to the café opened. Mycroft glanced over before continuing.

"A list. A list of demands for access to top secret information," Mycroft said with a sigh.

"What was on the list?" Sherlock asked.

"It doesn't matter. All that should concern you is that it came without the usual stipulations and consequences one would expect with such a request. There's no question to its author. Tell me, Sherlock, have you heard of the EFF?"

"Electronic Frontier Foundation. The group gained media attention after their exposé on the tracking codes being used in laser printers and color copiers," Sherlock said.

"Yes, the Yellow Dot Conspiracy Theory they called it. A single sheet of paper has an almost invisible pattern of small yellow dots with information about the date, time and serial number of the printer used. Some feared the government would use the information as a digital fingerprint, impinging on their personal freedom. Mostly it's used to catch counterfeiters."

"Mostly," Sherlock repeated.

With a flourish Mycroft pulled a single sheet of paper from his breast pocket. He unfolded it so that the five words were facing Sherlock.

_The east wind is coming. _

"The list of demands used the same printer as this sheet of paper. The digital fingerprint is the same. And it came from a business, a nightclub to be exact. You and Dr. Watson are to infiltrate it tonight. Intelligence teams tell us this is our best and perhaps only chance of catching Moriarty's superior. I'll text you the address."

Sherlock drank the remainder of his coffee in one large gulp. It was cold and a poor choice for staying caffeinated. He left Mycroft to pick up the tab. None of that mattered because he had work to do. Moriarty wouldn't expect them. For once they would have the advantage.

Sherlock's fingers paused over the keyboard of his phone, considering. He'd thought it would be amusing to bring himself back to life in front of John. He wanted John to be impressed with his ability to blend in, to be seen and unseen. In that moment where John went from disbelief to anger he'd known it had been a mistake. He wasn't prepared to cause John that kind of grief again. Only his absolute honesty would salvage the remains of their relationship, and he would take the ruins that were left and treasure them.

You won't like this. –SH

When do I ever. –JW

Notes: I swear by all that you might find unholy that those yellow dots are not a conspiracy. They are actual fact and if you google it you can find all kinds of stuff about how that information is used (and like Mycroft said, mostly for counterfeiters). I was watching the Great Mouse Detective (yes, the Disney cartoon) and I loved the part where Basil deduces where to find his archenemy based on a single sheet of paper. So I put these two ideas together. I felt pretty clever too. The next chapter was difficult to name. I settled on "Linear Extrapolation". Most because I'm nerdy.


	11. Linear Extrapolation

Sherlock paused at the landing, hand on the door knob. There were two sets of footprints leading to the flat. John's presence he had anticipated. Mary's was surprising. He quietly opened the door and moved inside. Their quiet voices travelled down the stairs, only pausing in conversation as he shut the door behind him.

His hand dragged besides him on the banister, fingertips sliding over the cool wood as he traveled up the steps to his flat. The small room was warmed by a large fire. Mary sat in his chair, shoes lying to one side, bare feet stretched towards orange glow as the wood spit and popped in delight. Her hands rubbed small circles over her swollen stomach and she didn't smile as she looked at him.

"Mary asked to come," John explained.

She gave a small shrug. Everything in her body language suggested she was indifferent. The ring on her finger and her choice of clothing said otherwise. The items she wore were designed to remind John of her impending motherhood. The blouse accentuated her belly and its low cut revealed her enlarged breasts. The black skirt was sensible, something she might wear to the park pushing a pram in front of her.

He didn't have anything to compete with the ties she held over John. If he revealed the questionable paternity of the child, Mary would most certainly deny it or John might decide to stay with her regardless. John had already forgiven their every transgression. So he would forgive John for making this choice - the logical choice, the right choice – just as Mary had already forgiven John for his infidelity.

"Right then. Sherlock I've explained things to Mary."

_Your hands in my hair. Your lips on my throat. My cock sliding into your mouth. You didn't tell her that, John._

"I know you and John were very good friends before I came along. We'd like to keep it that way. John and I need this marriage to work. I think it's best if you two don't spend too much time alone together," Mary said. "Don't you agree?"

John looked stunned. Whatever he'd thought she was going to say it hadn't been that.

"His presence is required this evening," Sherlock replied.

It was preposterous. Sherlock wanted to spend every waking hour with John. He was the first thing Sherlock thought of on the rare mornings he woke up in his own bed. The simple smell of his tea steeping made him long for John besides him, sipping his own cup. He wanted his time to be filled with John and then it still wouldn't be enough.

"Is there anything else then?" Sherlock asked, looking only at John.

John shook his head and there it was again - the look that John and Mary gave one another. It meant they both knew something he didn't. Mary started to push herself up out of the chair and John quickly reached over to help. She darted a glance at Sherlock and her tongue licked against her lips. He was making Mary nervous. Why? He had no hold over John. Sherlock studied the couple with narrowed eyes. He hated not knowing.

John kissed her cheek as he walked with her to the door.

"We're going to end this, Mary," John said.

"It's for the best," Mary replied.

John cleared his throat.

"We're going to end this thing with Moriarty. We'll take care of it and then he won't be a threat to you or the baby," John clarified.

Mary looked stricken as he led her away, shooting one final glance at Sherlock from over her shoulder. Sherlock felt a fluttering in his chest as he waited for John to finish escorting his wife to the door. He turned to the fire and put his hands behind his back.

"I'm going to go change," John muttered from the doorway.

John disappeared into the bathroom and Sherlock picked up his violin, losing himself in the familiar rhythms of treasured pieces. He opened his eyes to find John leaning against one wall, watching him. He lowered his bow down to his side and his arm hung limp and useless under that soft stare.

"I've always loved hearing you play," John said. John had discarded his loose poor-fitting clothing for a pair of slim jeans and a blue button-up shirt. The shirt was an expensive cashmere-cotton blend, perfectly tailored to accentuate John's broad chest. Soft leather shoes added just the right amount of casual touch to the ensemble. His arms were crossed and those blue eyes were intent on him.

"Mycroft has excellent taste," Sherlock said.

"If that's your way of telling me I look good, then ta. Now go get your ass into your jeans. We're supposed to be there in thirty minutes."

Part of Sherlock wanted to flee to his room, closing the door behind and slumping against it until he slid slowly to the floor. Then why was he considering something else? Maybe it had been the panic in Mary's eyes or the way John dismissed her from the room. A message that had once been garbled by misunderstanding and regret was coming through more clearly. So he gently deposited his violin on the sofa and strode over to John. He looked down his nose towards the man he had befriended and the lover he'd come to know. If anyone knew what to say to John Watson in that moment it was Sherlock.

"Make me," he whispered and watched as John's eyes filled with blatant desire. He reached down to grab a fist full of hair, pulling John gently towards him.

"Christ Sherlock!"

There was a sharp intake of breath as he nibbled at John's ear lobe. His hands found John's back and he ran his fingers up and down the spine, finding the most sensitive spots, cataloguing John's reactions. His head moved down to nuzzle at his neck and John lifted his chin up to give him more room. He sucked until the skin was hot in his mouth then gently licked away the heat. Over and over again his mouth worshipped John's throat, his ears, his lips. The salty sweetness of John's skin under his tongue made the giving so rewarding.

"God Sherlock," John gasped as Sherlock lapped up the space between his clavicles. His fingers worked the buttons of John's shirt, peeling it away. The belt he unclasped and used to pull John into him. He held them together, rubbing against John, until he was hot with neediness. Only then did he slide the belt out and drop it onto the floor.

"My bedroom now!" John ordered.

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and John closed his eyes.

"Not this time, Captain," he replied as he walked away. John was close behind him, cursing under his breath. Sherlock shed his clothing as he walked. When he reached his bedroom there was a line of clothes from the sofa to his door.

"Fuck," John said as he stared at Sherlock's naked body. It was almost a plea.

"If you'd like," Sherlock replied.

John worked at his flies, desperately pulling at his jeans as they got stuck around his shoes. Sherlock leaned against the door with his arms crossed and watched. His heart was hammering in his chest as he remembered the taste, the touch, the smell of John. It was something he would never forget. No matter where they went from here he would have that and it made this risk worth it.

For all his outward calmness he felt only a desperate churning from within. Then John was unclothed and striding towards him and Sherlock backed into his room. They met in a hard kiss, their hands roaming over one another. They were pressed together skin to skin, moving to their own tempo. John was bucking up against him. Their lengths aligned and they both moaned at the contact. Sherlock reached a hand down between their bodies to stroke them both until John's quiet moans grew louder.

"I would love to draw this out longer," Sherlock whispered into John's ear. "But since we have somewhere to be…"

He pushed John down onto his bed and swung one leg over to straddle him.

"Oh god," John groaned at the pale figure above him.

Sherlock moved his dominate hand to John's cock. He stroked them both at a slow easy pace until John was writhing into the blankets. He leaned over for a wet messy kiss before his hands started to move faster. John was moving with them, lifting his hips with each stroke.

"Say my name John. I want to hear you say my name."

John's legs clenched and then he was coming, Sherlock's name on his lips. Sherlock looked down at John completely limp and tangled in his sheets. His lips were swollen and on his neck was a large purple bite mark. Sherlock looked at it and a strong feeling of possession washed over him. John might be Mary's but he was also his. John wanted him, and that need was so great he was risking everything for it. That single thought pushed him over the edge. John's hands stroked his legs as he moved through his climax. He fell next to John still breathing hard.

This time John didn't pull away or get that guilty look in his eyes. Instead he lazily stroked Sherlock's chest and made a happy sighing sound. Sherlock rolled over and nuzzled against him for a moment before getting up to find a flannel. He tossed it to John and went to pick up his scattered clothing. He left them in a crumpled mess on top of his bed and slid into his jeans. They fit less snuggly now than they had when he'd gone to see John for dinner. He'd lost 3 pounds since then. His purple shirt was freshly laundered and hanging on one bedpost. He left the top two buttons loose and took a quick look in his mirror. His hair had fallen loose during the day and it now lay in waves around his face. His fingers tousled and teased until the style looked more intentional.

John had already seen him in this outfit, leather jacket and all. Apparently it still made an impression. His former flatmate was averting his eyes and there was a spot of color on each cheek. John cleared his throat quietly

"So what's the plan?" John asked as he slipped back into his own clothes.

"We are to infiltrate the Factory nightclub in Soho. Our primary objective is to gather intelligence. The second is to find Moriarty."

"I'm sure Mycroft has a special unit for that. Us going in seems a bit like a suicide mission. I should know, I've volunteered for a few. And don't tell me there's less risk of collateral damage this way. The only reason you and Mycroft hatched up this plan was to draw Moriarty out. Sending in a unit might drive Moriarty further underground instead of flushing him out. And from what you've told me Moriarty is working for someone. He's your real target." John said.

John's easy assessment of the situation wouldn't be unusual for a military tactician or strategist. It was almost suspicious for an army doctor.

"Did I miss anything?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal noise as he reassessed the man he'd befriended five years ago. That first night, the perfect shot through a window. It was a very good shot in fact, one that not every soldier could have made. What was the nature of John's injury?

"I had bad days," John said quietly.

Sherlock realized he'd been staring at John's injured shoulder and lowered his eyes. Outside was the sound of a car stopping. The engine remained idling and there was a knock downstairs.

"Showtime," John said. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he strode to the door.

"In a hurry?" Sherlock asked. He meant it to be teasing, but it came out dark and suggestive. John didn't even pause as the clambered down the steps.

"I want this done so I can get back to my life. I'm sick of Moriarty's head games and the way he manipulates people. He's like an insane twisted version of you."

"He gets under your skin," Sherlock said.

"I don't like this, Sherlock," John replied.

"I told you that you wouldn't."

Notes: And more smut. I swear there's plot in there too. And more clever John. Aren't our boys looking handsome. They are so ready to go clubbing. Coming up "the Factory." And thanks for reading! Please review if you can so that more readers can find this story. I put several months into it and I'm so excited at how it turned out. Everything in my stories takes place in Soho. I'm from America, please forgive me!


	12. The Factory

The waiting car wasn't the usual sleek black vehicle that abducted military doctors off the street or transported posh minor government officials around. This was a black BMW Roadster. Just nice enough for two blokes of their age to be driving, but not flashy enough to catch much attention. John ran his hands back and forth over the steering wheel and inhaled the fresh leather scent. It smelled brand new. A quick look at the odometer confirmed it.

"It's just a car," Sherlock said from the passenger seat.

"This isn't just a car. Did your brother buy this just for the operation tonight?"

"He does like to show off," Sherlock replied.

"Because you don't?"

They arrived in time to see a line of heads wrapping around a neon lit building. The valet was overly eager to take their keys and since it wasn't his car John didn't care. They huddled close to one another as they waited behind a thick black rope.

"Mycroft couldn't have gotten us in sooner?" John asked as his teeth chattered. His thin shirt wasn't providing any protection against the cooling London air.

"Perhaps if this were a date instead of an undercover operation," Sherlock replied, chuckling from under the warmth of his leather jacket. He had his hands buried deep in the pockets and his head was thrown back, revealing his long white throat. John reached up to lick a stripe across his neck.

"Up in front, you two!" a voice called.

They found themselves being led ahead of the crowd to the wide swinging door ahead that marked the entrance of the club. Suspicious. He wasn't a uni student anymore and John was a far cry from his younger years as well. They were shrouded in darkness as they stepped through the door and then their eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Sherlock moved to one side and pulled John over with him. His eyes were already scanning beyond the shadows of the walls to the tables and sofas beneath them. Some areas were curtained off with thick opaque fabric. The dance floor was below them on an entirely different level. Both floors boasted a large bar swimming with bottles, glasses, and attractive women. And men, Sherlock amended, spotting a shirtless bartender in black leather pants.

"Enjoying yourself?" a voice asked near his ear. John nodded to the attractive bartender.

Sherlock didn't try to yell his reply over the loud music and continued his inspection, hunting for the familiar face of James Moriarty.

"I'm going to get a drink. That's allowed, right? Can't have an all-nighter dance or drink," John said.

John slipped between the throng of tightly clad men and women, using his shoulders to gently (and sometimes not so gently) nudge people out of his path. He got a few looks as he made his way to the bar. Most of them were calculating as they took in the clean lines of his clothing and his toned physique. John was entirely confident with his stature and himself. Sherlock found it appealing and he knew those assessing eyes did as well. He moved to follow John to the bar and then someone caught his attention.

The man was clearly out of place, even more so than he and John. He stood at the very end of the bar in a red windbreaker zipped up to his neck - obviously concealing something, probably a firearm. The man waved to the closest bartender and she stopped pulling beer to hurry over to his side. She brought him his drink and left as quickly as she could, sending a fearful glance over her shoulder. Sherlock watched the staff, particularly the bouncers, as they moved their eyes over the crowd, looking for problems. They never seemed to notice the man at the bar.

Sherlock slid carefully down towards the bar, avoiding the couple snogging on the stairs. He moved in next to John and leaned down to whisper in his ear. His target downed the last of his beer and turned his way just as he slipped in besides John.

"Smile as if you're enjoying what I'm saying," Sherlock said quietly, turning his face in and away from the man.

John stood on tiptoe to answer.

"Of course I'm enjoying it," he replied. "What do you say when this is all over we go have dinner?"

Sherlock moved his arms up to John's shoulder, pulling him closer.

"I'm not hungry," said Sherlock.

"Well then I'll eat and you can watch," John replied cheekily. Sherlock felt one corner of his mouth turn up in a smirk.

"I'd like that."

"We can't flirt. We're on a mission," John laughed.

They both grinned like idiots and the women behind the bar leaned over to whisper together. They both giggled from behind cupped hands.

"We need to follow that man," Sherlock indicated with a flick of his wrist as red windbreaker moved up the stairs, shoving people out of his way and earning a good share of curses and swearing.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes are you blushing?"

"Must be the heat," he muttered.

"More flirting. I like this side of you," said John.

Red windbreaker had used a backdoor to make his exit. The door warned of a fire alarm when opened. Sherlock pushed the handle confidently and the door opened quietly. They were in a wide alleyway at the back of the nightclub. Two large dumpsters reeked of alcohol and trash. A small animal scurried away as they walked forward, its bright eyes disappearing under a chain link fence.

John moved deliberately, eyes skimming to either side, looking for anything that wasn't supposed to be there. He was in full military mode and his senses were screaming ambush. And then his ears heard the sound of a chamber being drawn back. There was a soft click and he froze in his steps. Sherlock did the same.

"I can't believe you fell for that!" a familiar voice said from behind them.

Notes: Cliff hanger! I know, I'm terrible. My 6 year old loves the Hardy Boys. He pointed out that something always happened before the end of each chapter. I told him it was cliff hanger style. And Sherlock flirting, now we've seen everything. The next chapter is "Bare King". And it's a long one.


	13. Bare King

"Ah ah, don't turn around. I've got enough fire power for the two of you, I promise. Hands over your heads. That's good. Keep walking, we're almost there."

They stopped outside a small building at the end of the alleyway. The door was hanging open and they ducked inside. Overhead several small lamps clicked on, bathing parts of the empty white room in a low light. Rough hands spun them around until they were facing their captor. Moriarty looked at his prize with maniacal happiness.

"Cuff 'em," he drawled. But instead of the expected feel of cold metal against their skins there was the binding stiffness of plastic cords.

"Great," John huffed under his breath as he was pushed to his knees. Sherlock fell besides him.

"Now all that's left is one small detail. After all, we need the _entire_ family here. What's the code word that will make Mycroft come for his baby brother?"

Sherlock stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

"Maybe you need some incentive," Moriarty drawled.

Moriarty's man pointed his revolver to the back of John's head. Moriarty leaned down and fished through Sherlock's pants. John saw his hands slide up and down in a caress before he pulled out Sherlock's phone.

"I would count to three, but there's no point. You know you'll do it to save John. You'd do anything to save John and we both know why."

"Bare King," Sherlock said.

Moriarty paused over the keyboard. He leaned his head to one side as he studied Sherlock. Sherlock raised one eyebrow and looked silently back.

"You're bluffing," Moriarty finally said. John thought he looked uncertain. He certainly hadn't sent a text to Mycroft yet so whatever Sherlock had said, it had an effect.

"What's a bare king?" John asked quietly to Sherlock.

"In chess it means all your pieces have been captured until only the king remains. A lone king can never give check so the best the player can hope for is a stalemate," Sherlock said in a clear voice. Moriarty licked his lips. From the shadows at the back of the room an almost familiar voice replied.

"Send the text."

Sherlock jerked his head, trying to turn around to get a better look at the man giving orders. Two hands roughly shoved his forward again. Moriarty slid the phone into his pocket.

"Six minutes until brother dear makes an appearance," the man behind them said.

"You always did underestimate me," said a voice from the doorway. Mycroft Holmes was holding his pocket watch and leaning easily into his umbrella, the very picture of calm.

"Oh, you're good. You're both very good," Moriarty said.

"This building is surrounded. The men outside are under orders to move in if gunfire is heard," Mycroft said casually.

"You'd let Sherlock die?" Moriarty sneered.

"I sent him on a suicide mission, didn't I? This isn't about him… or you."

Mycroft walked confidently forward and held his hand out to the captor behind Sherlock. The gun was placed in Mycroft's upturned palm.

"Well that explains a lot," Moriarty said sarcastically. "A mole? Could you be any more boring?"

"Better than being obvious," Mycroft replied and Moriarty flushed angrily.

Mycroft pistol whipped him across his head and he fell to the ground, holding his scalp as blood trickled in small rivulets down his face.

"Enough of that. I'd wager you didn't see this coming," said a familiar voice from the darkness.

"Then you would be mistaken. You have seldom managed to surprise me, brother," Mycroft replied.

"Brother, what does he mean brother?" John said and then a tall man stepped into the light. John blinked rapidly and reeled back. The hair was short and cropped, the clothing simple lines of black on black, but John would recognize those piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones anywhere. It was the same figure he'd seen a dozen times on the streets of London when he thought Sherlock was dead.

"My twin, Sherrington Holmes," Sherlock snarled.

"Some were under the impression you were deceased Sherrington," Mycroft said.

"Funny how the past is always rearing its ugly head," Sherrington replied.

"It was you! I saw you in the street after Sherlock died. And you're the reason that little girl was screaming after she got kidnapped. You're the sick bastard that snatched her!" John said.

Mycroft glanced knowingly at John. John gave a small nod and Sherlock felt something slide quickly between his wrists and the plastic was off. John moved like an incoming storm. His knife found the stomach of his guard in one swift motion. Moriarty crouched on the ground, hair matted to one side of his scalp with blood. He took one look at John's furious face and fled out the door. John followed after him, ignoring both Sherlock and Mycroft as they yelled for him to stop.

Sherlock took a step towards the door and looked back at Mycroft. He was desperate to follow John. His bones were shaking with the need. Mycroft had his gun fixed on Sherrington and his gaze never wavered. Their mole bolted for the door, leaving the three brothers alone.

"I'll handle this. Find him. Find them both," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned and ran, his greatcoat billowing behind him. The alleyway seemed darker after the light of the room behind him. His eyes caught the movement of two shadows on the roof tops. Sherlock was half way up the fire escape when the sound of a single gunshot split the night sky. The world was falling. The sun was bleeding. Because Sherlock knew who that bullet was intended to hit. He might fool John but he couldn't fool Moriarty. Moriarty had hit him right where his heart was.

Sherlock slipped and slid up the ladder with numb fingers. Panic was setting fire to his veins, the adrenaline coming in wave after wave. From the front the nightclub he could hear the sound of police sirens. Sherlock dropped to his knees at the sight of the still body of John.

"Please forgive me," he whispered, hanging his head. The blood was pooling on the cement and knees were damp with it beneath his jeans. John lifted his head slightly.

"Sherlock, I'll be okay. I'm fine! Just… just help me apply pressure."

John's hands were on top of Sherlock's as they covered the bullet wound in his abdomen. Their warmth did little to still the growing coldness in his heart. He couldn't lose John. He'd never felt anything close to the companionship they shared. Without John the world would be boring and predictable. There would be nothing to keep the darkness at bay. It would consume him. John always followed him into danger, but it was John's light that brought them back.

"I love you, John," his voice was almost a whisper.

John laughed, his face held quiet disbelief.

"I love you, too. You're an insufferable dick sometimes but yeah, you're my best friend."

The police filled the alleyway with lights and uniforms. Lestrade walked calmly down the middle of the unit, eyes darting to the dark rooftops.

"You two, clear the upper side of these buildings. We've got a few snipers up there. Make sure you don't shoot them," Lestrade ordered.

"Up here!" Sherlock called desperately.

The DI started climbing up after them when Mycroft appeared in the opposite direction. Lestrade paused halfway up the fire escape. Mycroft held up his hands and looked pointedly at Lestrade as the men cocked their weapons his way.

"He's with us. Go! Move!" Lestrade shouted.

John wasn't watching the movement of bodies on either side of them. His head drooped in Sherlock's arms.

"John, stay with me. Don't close your eyes. John!"

Sherlock acted on instinct. He didn't give any thought to the fact that they were in public or that John was married. There was no time to second guess himself or deduce how John would react. His head was bent over John's, their faces a breath apart. John was hurt and he wanted to provide comfort for himself and for John. Sherlock closed the distance and planted soft kisses on John's lips. Then he lost control and his tongue was scraping across John's teeth and thrusting into his mouth. John moaned into his open mouth and it was the most erotic thing he'd ever felt. John's eyes shot open again as Sherlock pulled away. Sherlock was still close to him, feeling John's breath move into and out of his lungs, watching his face move and change.

"Don't stop now, that was just getting good," John teased.

"John Hamish Watson, I believe I am in love with you," Sherlock said solemnly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw both Lestrade and Mycroft jerk their heads in his direction. He could be arsed to care. John's eyes grew wide with surprise and then the paramedics arrived, pushing Sherlock aside and doing their job. Sherlock gave John one last embrace, slipped his hand beneath the small of his back to reach the gun there. Then he backed away and let the paramedics take John away.

"I would have pulled the trigger," Sherlock said, shoving the gun deep into a coat pocket.

Mycroft held his fingers delicately over his skin, feeling the swelling and abrasions on his face.

"I thought I could. I was mistaken," said Mycroft.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft moved to his side and pointed across the roof to two dark figures moving quickly together.

"I thought you had men at the perimeter!" Sherlock snarled. "John should have been in no danger."

"It seems we also have a mole among our men," Mycroft replied. "It only takes one sniper to clear an area. That's exactly what occurred. Lestrade has his unit taking up strategic points now."

Sherlock didn't reply.

He moved back then ran towards the edge of the building, taking the leap over easily. Mycroft sighed and placed his umbrella besides him on the ground. He soon followed Sherlock over the chasm. They flew together from one building to the next until they were close behind their quarry.

They were catching up quickly, too quickly. As they rounded a corner it became clear why. Sherrington had his arm wrapped around Moriarty's neck and a gun at the temple of his head.

"I assume you would like him alive," Sherrington said.

Moriarty whimpered like a child. His lip was split and blood trickled down his neck.

"Ideally yes. However I wouldn't be opposed to his immediate demise. He's a poor choice for a hostage," Mycroft replied.

"I'm a little more problematic however. Can't have Parliament knowing your little brother has been pulling at Moriarty's strings. I was counting on being able to pull yours instead. I suppose that won't happen now."

"What do you propose?" Mycroft asked.

"You get princess here. I walk away," Sherrington said.

Sherlock held his teeth together so tightly his jaw was aching. He glowered at Moriarty. His finger had been on the trigger of the gun that had wounded John. Sherrington had always been a master chess player. His moves were calculating and precise. He would sacrifice his own pieces if needed. And take his opponents pieces only when they led to an eventual checkmate. He wasn't sloppy in other words. John's shooting had been sloppy and unnecessary, which meant Moriarty had acted on his own and without orders. Now Sherrington was trussing him up as a peace offering.

How much of the last few years was Moriarty operating on his own, and how much was he following Sherrington's orders? Their last meeting at the pool hadn't been a performance. Moriarty had been serious in his offer. Sherlock's mouth dropped to form a small "o". Moriarty would have done whatever he needed to in order to get Sherrington out of the picture had Sherlock said yes.

"Stupid, stupid!" he whispered. "It always comes back to this. The serial killers, the Bruce-Partington plans, even the puzzles Moriarty left for me to solve. Sentiment! It's always sentiment. Moriarty has been acting on his own because he's completely infatuated," Sherlock said.

Moriarty jerked in Sherrington's arms.

"With you," Mycroft finished.

"We'll take the deal," Sherlock said. Sherrington pushed Moriarty forward and he stumbled away, head hanging low, as if the voiced revelation had drained his spirit. Mycroft kept the gun leveled at his head anyway.

"Just shoot me already," Moriarty whined.

Mycroft hit him swiftly across his head once more and Moriarty fell to the floor, out cold. Sherrington didn't look at him once.

"It's been a pleasure. Bluds."

Sherrington moved his gun to Sherlock's head, taking one step and then another until the night swallowed him. Mycroft sighed and retrieved his cell phone from one of his coat pockets. A helicopter touched down and they were all airlifted the hospital.

"Stalemate," Sherlock whispered.

Notes: Long chapter! Mycroft redeems himself for not shooting Sherrington, I hope. He did chuck Moriarty across the head and Sherrington IS his brother after all. I hope you liked the big reveal. I was taking a nice hot shower and thinking about Johnlock when it came to me. The next chapter is at the hospital so that's what it's called.


	14. Hospital

The coffee tasted and smelled like burnt mud even with the 36g of sugar he'd dissolved into it. The cafeteria was the closest thing he could get to solitude in this useless place. John was in surgery and no one would tell him anything else. He had badgered the nurses until he was told to spend some time away from their desk or be escorted away.

"This tea is atrociously weak," Mycroft muttered, looking unhappily into his cup.

Sherlock was silent. His eyes dropped to the unassuming umbrella tucked so casually by Mycroft's knees. With the constant threat of danger or at the very least political espionage, there were better choices. But from the time he became a parliamentary private secretary he had carried it on his person at all times. It was as part of his persona.

Sherlock used to think of his violin in the same way - something to always come home to. Even when he wasn't playing he could hear the melodies in his head, fingers moving instinctively along some invisible fingerboard. For a long time he played mechanically and dispassionately. The notes were always perfect in their timing and tempo. His bow would travel up and down in a flawless movement of wrist to arm to shoulder. And naturally the untrained ear called it good. And it was good in its own way.

And it was enough until five years ago. John would constantly complain about the havoc that Sherlock reeked over his life, specifically his love life. No one considered the turmoil John created in his. Whenever that pressure built up, becoming unbearable with its emotional demands, Sherlock would turn to his violin. He let go of the strict principles that had guided his playing from a young age. He let the storm take him up, accepting it instead of fighting so hard. When he finally lowered his violin again calm would be restored. John would be beaming at him from his chair. And Sherlock would bask in the praise of the very man that drove him to these new heights.

At some point the violin had become what it truly was – an instrument. Because the thing he wanted to come home to had changed. John had become his anchor. John was his home.

"It's pointless to worry. He will make a complete recovery," Mycroft finally said and Sherlock looked up.

Mycroft's black eye was already fading and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands had been cleaned. It was a far cry from his usual immaculate appearance. He'd found time to change into clothes that Anthea had probably brought him but his hair was still out of place. He could have gone home, to sleep or mull over the complexities of running the British government. He hadn't. He knew how important John was.

John could die. That was a reality. He wouldn't know John's prognosis until after his surgery. Even then he wouldn't let himself hope or believe – not until John was there and he could kiss him and hold him.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow as his phone chirped.

"Dr. Watson is out of surgery. The nurses have deemed it acceptable if you'd care to see him."

John was carefully tucked under stiff white sheets. An IV drip line ran down from a pole and into his arm while the pulse monitor beeped in a continuous rhythm. His face was pale and worn, making him look far older than his forty years. Sherlock reached out a hand to smooth the lines of his brow. John would laugh and look embarrassed if he was awake. Or maybe he'd take his hand and kiss it. Maybe he'd understand.

John continued his drug-induced sleep. A nurse came to take his vitals. She was stealing supplies from the nurses station and drugs from the pharmacy when she could.

"He won't be awake until morning," she said, sounding annoyed.

"That leaves you ample time to pinch more oxycodone. Off you pop," Sherlock said, and she had fled the room without another word.

Sherlock picked up John's limp hand and held it in his. His forehead bent to touch it and that's how he fell asleep. Then someone was shaking him gently.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't move. He stayed bowed over the bed with John's hand still in his and squeezed it tightly. John's free hand moved to stroke his shoulder.

"Hey, I'm fine," John soothed.

Sherlock tried to talk. There was a lump in his throat and he couldn't swallow past it. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Tears began to trickle down onto their clasped hands. He didn't know if they were tears of relief or joy. He cried quietly, shoulders shaking even though he willed them to stop, while John smoothed his hair and tucked stray curls behind his ears.

Sherlock's head was still sunk into the bedding when Mary came to the door. She took one look at the pair and gave a small gasp. This was not a reunion between friends. It was much too intimate for that. This was an embrace of lovers long apart and now reunited. Mary took a step into the room. Sherlock didn't see John shake his head no, but he knew that he did. Mary left as quietly as she came.

Sherlock finally pulled himself up, quickly wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. John took both his hands and looked at him. His gaze was intense and direct. Sherlock melted into it. No one could see him way that John did. No one looked at him like that, like a human being, like someone to be loved.

"Sherlock did you mean what you said? About…being in love with me?"

Sherlock stiffened and pulled away, pulling back into himself. They were on the cusp of something, both afraid to jump before the other had fallen. It was his turn to do the right thing and take that step. He was falling all over again, body spread out like an angel with the cold air pushing against him, closer and closer to that inevitable ending. Sherlock couldn't look at John as he nodded.

"I'm in love with you too," John finally said.

Carefully, so careful, John pulled Sherlock back over the bed. Their lips met in a simple yet firm touch.

"I love you," Sherlock said against his mouth.

"I'm still not gay," John said as they pulled apart.

"Well I am," Sherlock replied.

"Glad we got that cleared up."


	15. Love Me Sweetly --smut--

The newspaper rustled as John paged through it from his chair. Sherlock sat in the opposite chair, chin on his hands and completely silent as he watched. The surgical bandages were hidden beneath an oatmeal jumper. Another scar to add to John's marred body, a new reminder of the dangers of London and life. He desperately wanted to see it. John finally set the paper down with a sigh, glaring at Sherlock.

"What do you bloody well want?" he asked.

"You," Sherlock replied as if it were obvious. Also because it seemed a better option than saying he wanted John's new scar.

"Well you can't have me. Not for 8 more weeks. You might think it's fun to go running around London when you've been shot, but I don't. Let me remind you that you almost died, again, and had to go back to the hospital when you opened your stitches."

"I don't want to open your stitches. I just want to see them," Sherlock replied.

"Not going to happen. I'm not some science experiment. Go find a case. Play violin. Hit on someone at a gay bar," John said.

Sherlock scowled and slunk over to the sofa where he sprawled out comfortably, feet dangling off one edge. It had been a tedious week. Mycroft had wanted nothing to do with addressing the press and it had fallen on Sherlock to answer their questions.

"My anonymity provides me certain privileges. There's no point in giving them up for a criminal," Mycroft had said of Moriarty's capture.

Moriarty would get a trial. Mycroft assured him would lead to a conviction and life in prison without parole. Sherlock thought about that great spider brain behind bars. He would make his own life within those walls. His influence could easily carry beyond that boundary. Moriarty, however, was not their immediate problem. Sherrington was.

To his surprise John hadn't asked many questions. None about his twin brother. Only a few about Moriarty. It wasn't that John didn't care or didn't want to know. He always seemed curious enough when the subject came up. Sherlock thought John might be letting him decide what to say on his own terms. He waited for that as patiently as he waited for his new wound to heal. John was building something here. Sherlock wished he understood what it was.

"I didn't know he was alive. I only suspected he might be," Sherlock blurted out. John lowered the paper enough to glance at him over the pages.

"Alright," he replied.

"I didn't lie to you," Sherlock said.

"I know."

John was back to reading the paper again and Sherlock turned to the wall, burying his face in the sofa cushions.

"Tea?" John asked.

Sherlock mumbled yes into the cushions. He heard John put the glass carefully down on the coffee table before the sofa shifted with his added weight. Sherlock finally moved his head up because he needed oxygen. John's hand combed through his hair then he went back to his cuppa.

Sherlock couldn't take it any longer. John's tea cup went on the table next to his and Sherlock pulled at the jumper, shoving it up and then over John's arms.

"Oi!" John shouted.

Sherlock grabbed John's hands before they could shove him and gripped them tightly.

"Don't struggle. You'll open your stitches, remember?"

Sherlock watched John's face as his hands moved down, finding the flies to his jeans. Suddenly the flames dancing in his eyes disappeared and John stiffened under his hands.

"Uh, company," John said, looking towards the doorway.

"What do you want now?" Sherlock snapped without turning around.

"Just a word. Unless you need me to come back later?" Mycroft drawled.

"Or you could stay away completely," Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft ignored the request and sat down in Sherlock's chair instead. He unsnapped his black attaché case with graceful ease and set out several manila folders across the coffee table.

"Sherrington has fled to eastern Europe," Mycroft said.

Sherlock sighed and pulled away from John. John's cheeks were flushed and it wasn't with pleasure. He tugged his jumper back on and slinked to the kitchen to make another cup of tea.

"Hmn, coincidence?" Sherlock asked.

"You know better than that. Ah, thank you John," Mycroft took the cup and saucer from John and set it carefully down on the coffee table. John picked up a folder at random and rifled through the pages.

"I need some air," he said, handing the file to Mycroft.

A glossy photo slipped out, turning like a leaf in the wind before settling on the table. Sherrington Holmes was looking up, his face turned away from the camera. The field of view didn't include whatever had attracted his attention. John didn't have a map of London imprinted on his long term memory but he had identified these landmarks. He had recognized the out of focus structure in the background. Sherrington was looking up at the rooftop of St. Barts.

Sherlock flipped the photograph over. There wasn't a time stamp on the back. Still, there was no snow or rain in the picture and Sherrington was wearing a light jacket. Early fall then, just before you really started to notice the season was changing. Sherrington looked younger in the photo. About three years younger. This wasn't a recent picture.

"He couldn't figure out if I'd really jumped," Sherlock chuckled.

"It was only John's devastation that led him to believe it was true."

"Oh don't exaggerate. John wasn't devastated," Sherlock replied. "He moved on. You said so yourself."

Mycroft studied his umbrella, then his shoes, and finally the floor.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me. Don't be… dead._

"You weren't here Sherlock. How would you know?"

John returned later in the evening, closing the door loudly behind him. He made the second step and his footsteps were light on the stairs. _Two pints with Stamford._ John was in a good mood. He whistled quietly to himself as he pulled off his jacket.

Sherlock fiddled with edges of his bathrobe.

"Wotcha!" John called out as he headed to the kitchen. "Did Mrs. Hudson bring up any more of those pumpkin scones? You ate them all, didn't you? We have nothing safe to eat. Did you want any take-away?"

John trailed off as he noticed Sherlock staring at him intently and looking quite miserable hugging his arms to his legs.

"Sherlock what's going on?" he asked softly.

"John, about Mary. There's something you should know."

"Alright…" John said, sitting down beside him.

"It's the baby. I don't think it's yours," Sherlock rushed as quickly as he could, wanting to get the worst part behind them.

"Yeah, I know. Mary told me," John said with a sigh. "So wherever she ends up, I'd like to let her go."

Sherlock's uncertainty was replaced with something softer. He thought it might be hope.

"If that's what you want," said Sherlock.

John held his face between his hands and looked into his eyes.

"It is," John said.

Sherlock leaned into John and turned his head, exposing his long pale throat. John moaned softly and dropped his head to nuzzle him. Sherlock let himself indulge in the feel of John's tongue on his skin. The first lick started a low burn in his veins. Then the sensation became a roaring furnace of need. Sherlock pulled John's head to him, tongue darting forward and into his delicious mouth. He could feel the rough scape of their cheeks as he pulled away.

"There's something else," Sherlock said quietly. He hated to break this moment when all he wanted to do was climb away with John as high as they could get.

"Go on then," John answered just as softly. "Whatever you need to say you can say it to me, alright?"

"I'm sorry for all times I've wronged you."

Whatever John had expected it must not have been that. He dropped his hands and rubbed them over his face instead.

"I'm either too drunk or not sober enough to have this conversation. Do you have any idea how painful it was when I thought you had died? I almost jumped myself. There was no point in going on."

"You said you forgave me," Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away.

"Yes, but I did think I was going to die at the time," John answered. Sherlock darted a glance at John's face. It was pained, not angry.

"You were in love with me."

"I was in love with you," John affirmed. "And that's why it hurt so much."

There weren't enough words in any language (_and he knew six_) to describe how sorry he was. He let his mouth tell John. His hands were gentle and careful as they moved over John, trying to wash away the sorrow that lingered. His lips were soft as they planted kisses up John's jaw and into his hair. John sighed beneath his fingertips. This time he didn't ask Sherlock to stop. They would be careful. It was a night to be careful. New things were awakening here.

"John, I want to take you to bed," Sherlock said.

"Are you sure? We don't have to," John replied. "I'm happy with the way things are."

He tugged at John's hand. John followed him to the door of his bedroom. It opened into a room littered with clothing and books. Thankfully none of the piles of more questionable items was on the bed. John swept the blankets and sheets to the floor and lowered himself onto the mattress. Sherlock closed his eyes until the darkness of his lids ate away the sight of John. It was too much to absorb. He was simply overwhelmed.

His mind conjured up an image of John. He was much younger but those blue eyes gazed through him, past the front he presented to the world, and into the core where he was most vulnerable and human.

Sherlock opened his eyes again and John was still there, looking concerned now. His gaze was no less intense than it had been in his head. The very sight of John lying so comfortably on his bed was almost painful. Sherlock could hear a sound like ice cracking as something inside of him broke.

John waited patiently. There was no urgency in his posture. Sherlock felt like John might wait forever for him. Slowly he joined John on the bed, crawling across to sit next to him. John turned and took him into his arms, pressing a single kiss to his brow.

"It's alright. I've got you," he said.

Sherlock moved to bury himself in John's chest. He could smell John's cologne on his shirt. It was distracting. It wasn't John. He tugged at John's shirt, slowly pulling it upwards, hands dragging over John's ribs as he took it off. He slapped John's hands away and slowly unbuttoned his own shirt, watching John as his undid each button.

They kissed slowly, savoring each moment, hands softly moving over each other. Sherlock kicked off his trousers and helped John out of his. Their naked bodies pressed together ever so carefully, always mindful of John's bandages.

"I want you inside of me," Sherlock growled into John's ear.

"I would love to but it might not be a good idea. How 'bout you give it a go?"

John reached over Sherlock to the bedside table. He placed a condom and lube into Sherlock's hand.

"How did you know-" Sherlock started.

"I deduced it," John said and they both laughed quietly.

"John, I've never… what I mean to say is that I've only…" Sherlock stumbled.

"You've only bottomed. That is a surprise. Would you like to try then?"

"I want to try everything with you," Sherlock said.

John's hands were on his arse, kneading lightly.

"Not everything all at once I hope. At least not tonight. Here, let me get prepped."

Sherlock's mouth went dry as he watched him bend over. His slick fingers moved up his perineum and then into himself, pushing in and out gradually. It was a gorgeous sight. John added more lube and pushed in another finger. Sherlock bit his lip. John's eyes were closed as he pushed back onto his fingers, fucking himself with them.

"John, please," Sherlock begged.

In reply he lowered himself onto his front half, giving Sherlock the access he needed. Sherlock pushed in slowly, carefully watching his face for any sign of discomfort. He moved very deliberately. He wanted to remember this moment, the moment that made John completely his.

John started to move with him, pushing back, a counterweight to his pull. He grasped John by the hips and pulled him back harder. His heart was beating against his chest in a rapid rhythm. Everything narrowed down to a point. There was a slow reduction into himself until he became nothing. Then it was just him and John, a single entity in a quiet universe that they shared.

Their thrusts became more urgent. Sherlock's nails were digging into John's hips and John was biting the edge of a pillow. Sherlock knew John would be crying out loudly if his mouth wasn't buried in it. He didn't mind as long as he was bringing John this pleasure. Sherlock wasn't hitting John's prostate but it only took him a minute to find the right angle.

"Christ fucking hell!" John cursed.

He wanted to draw this out into eternity but he could already feel a tightening in his abdomen. He was filled with a foreboding, as if this place wasn't meant for him and he had accidently trespassed here.

"You're thinking too much," John said.

Sherlock realized he had stopped thrusting.

"Why don't I turn over. You can kiss me and distract that brain of yours," John told him.

Sherlock felt himself sliding out. Then John was on his back. There was a sheen of sweat on his face and up to his temple. He looked ready to come undone. He was just as close as Sherlock. His cock was standing up and pre-cum leaked from its head. Sherlock licked his lips and bent his head down. John gasped and grabbed at his hair, pulling him away.

"I want you inside me when I come," John said.

Sherlock managed to nod, lining himself up again. He pressed in and John threw his head back and closed his eyes.

"Oh fuck that's good," he gasped. They moved together in a slow dance with Sherlock leading. His hand reached down to find John's length and John gave a shout. Sherlock knew he couldn't last much longer. He'd had so little sexual attention for the last few years and he was feeling insanely sensitive. So he moved his hand faster, twisting at the top of John's cock, letting his fingers caress the skin right below the head.

"Just like that, don't stop!"

"I love you John," Sherlock said and John gripped his arms and pulled Sherlock close to him as he let himself go over that edge, shivering and shouting.

Sherlock continued to push in, bending over to swipe his tongue over John's lips.

"I want you just like that when you come. Let go. I've got you," John urged, his hands moving over Sherlock's back as he whispered in his ear.

The heat built to the point of no return. Then it broke like a fever and Sherlock was falling into John's waiting arms. They lay panting together, their bodies sticky and damp.

"God that was good," John said.

Sherlock made a contended noise into John's chest.

"Good for you too then," John laughed.

"There's no reason to move ever again," Sherlock mumbled.

"Maybe for a shower. We could both use one. And I need to change my dressing," John said. He pushed at Sherlock and Sherlock rolled over, hugging a pillow.

Sherlock found his legs again and stumbled from his bedroom to the bathroom, not bothering to cover himself up. He almost expected either Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade to be waiting in the sitting room. Someone was always there to come between him and John. The flat was empty except for the sound of running water and John's quiet singing in the shower. It sounded like a marching song. Was he remembering his time in the army, when another man had kept him company? Maybe there was an association between male sex and his experiences in Afghanistan. Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to know the extent of John's experimentation with male partners.

It seemed strange to barge into the bathroom while John occupied that space so he knocked.

"Come in you ridiculous bastard," John called out and Sherlock pushed the door open. He stepped into the shower and John moved over to give him the water. It was hot and steamy and perfect against his skin. John was avoiding wetting his bandages so he leaned against the wall to watch Sherlock lather himself up with a bar of soap. His arms were crossed and he smiled a lazy Cheshire cat grin.

After they dried off Sherlock helped John carefully peel back the tape around his dressing and replace it with a fresh one. They went back to the sitting room and John opened his laptop and started typing.

"Another entry for your blog? I suppose we did capture Moriarty. I suggest leaving my twin brother out of it. Wouldn't want Mycroft sending MI6 after us."

"No, nothing like that," John replied, looking smug.

Sherlock bent over his shoulder to look down at the newest entry, made just the day before.

_I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes. _

There were already a dozen comments, all of them well wishes for the happy couple. Sherlock didn't read them. John was pulling him down to his mouth and he was kissing him hungrily. The laptop closed with a click and was left forgotten on the coffee table.

THE END

Notes: Whew! 30,000 words later and the journey ends. Thanks everyone for reading and for the reviews. May Johnlock become canon during season 4. I don't think I can wait it out until season 5! Hang in there fellow Johlockers. Thanks again!


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